


Those Heavy Days In June

by blueghosts



Series: We Own the World [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst, Anxiety, Character Death, Dad! Zayn, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Heartbreak, Journalist Zayn Malik, Love, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Original Character(s), Pining, Reconciliation, Recreational Drug Use, Rockstar Harry, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smut, There and Back Again, Trust, no one asked for this but I wrote it anyway, secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 81,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueghosts/pseuds/blueghosts
Summary: There’s a certain spark that doesn’t ignite until now, bubbling and tingling away underneath the surface of his skin that needs just the inconsequential touch of a palm, or a brush of a knuckle, or a kiss to explode, and the only fear in Zayn’s mind, the most important and dire and breath-taking thought, is if Harry feels it, too; if he senses the pops between the surges of blood in his veins before they fall away into nothing but an aftermath of withdrawal, and it’s too late. Otherwise, they’re both on the road to Russia, with nothing but a past of what could have been’s behind them, and Zayn knows he’s going to go home with a hole in his chest that Harry will never get the chance to fill again.(Zayn is heading to a funeral, whilst Harry is heading to a wedding. Zayn is great with words, and Harry is awful with them. Harry thinks Zayn hates him, and Zayn isn't sure how he feels anymore.)





	1. I hear your heart beating in your chest

**Author's Note:**

> no one asked for this, they really didn't. 
> 
> friends to enemies to lovers, because it really never gets boring with zarry ever, because they're always giving us so much content to draw angst and drama from. like, it's more of a crime to not do anything with it than to write it in 70k+ of possible angsty zarry scenario's. 
> 
> just as a side not: zayn's character does have anxiety and OCD (as mentioned in the tags), and the rituals shown in the story and the ways that he thinks and some of his past is based around the lineations of my own struggles with OCD--it's very personal to me, and putting so much of myself into a character seems like treading into water I don't know the depth of, but I'm trusting anyone who reads this to be sensitive and understanding of the topic, and to not call it ridiculous or stupid or fictitious, because it is a very real thing for me that I experience every day, to a higher extent than the character in this story. it wasn't an intentional thing to make Zayn have OCD, it's just what happened in the flow of the story and it sort of fits. thank you for being understanding, and it'd be really cool if this reached someone else who has OCD and maybe feels like they're being represented, although I only lightly touch on the subject. 
> 
> this is a light trigger warning for anyone who has anxiety, OCD, or depression. nothing in terms of s****de or s*lf-h**m is mentioned, but there may be mild triggers for anxiety or ocd if anyone is sensitive to it. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading this angsty mess! I dont have a beta for this bc I’m winging it, so any mistakes you see are just ones I’ve missed in quick, lazy editing. 
> 
> (title from florence + the machine's song -- June).

_“‘If it weren’t for his atrociously indulged ego, Harry Styles may be, somewhat—perhaps, on a different planet—tolerable. Maybe not even then’.”_

“Jesus, mate,” Queen says, throwing the newspaper down onto the desk, “you really went in on him, didn’t ya?” 

Zayn shrugs, but doesn’t look up from his computer screen. “Just wrote what most people think and don’t have the bollocks to say about him—about most celebs, actually.”

“Yeah, but what if he reads it?”

 “I’m sure he’ll live, even if his ego doesn’t.”

“Don’t get me wrong, but I, sort of, took you for the ‘ _celebrities are still people’_ type of guy. You know, like, overly and above-you kind of nice.”

“I am,” he says, “I am like that. But when celebrities make no indication that they care about anyone but themselves, all obligation I feel to owe my respect or generosity to them goes out of the window. No one owes anything to people like that.”

“Some people are saying how unnecessary it was for you to write the article,” Queen says, before adding, “and by ‘ _some people’_ , I mean the gossiping twats around the office, not to mention the unsurpassable slew of death threats from his fans you’ve had over the past few days.”

“Maybe it was a bit unnecessary,” Zayn agrees. “But, I’ve wrote it now, and I’ve done my job and got my money, so there’s no taking it back. And the people who don’t like it will have to live with it.” He sits back in his chair and takes a sip of coffee from his flask. “And I don’t really give a shit about what some bias, superficial, whiny fangirls have to say about me because I disgraced their beloved king.”

“You know they aren’t all teenaged fangirls, right?” Queen asks, this seriocomical tone to his voice, and Zayn knows he’s hit a crossroads of an opposing view.  

“I know.” Zayn smirks. “But life is a more fun with a bit of generalisation.”

“How is Niall?”

“Fine. When are you going to stop asking _me_ about him and just ask him out?”

Queen laughs and flips him off. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being serious,” Zayn says, swivelling around on his chair so he faces Queen more. “You know he likes you, too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s none of your business.”

“Oh, so now it’s none of my business,” Zayn tuts. “Right, I’ll remember that one.”

The small chatter in the office dulls down as a set of burdensome footsteps click across the floor. Zayn isn’t going to look up, plans to keep his eyes down to the notes on his desk, but he sees Queen move from the corner of his eye, and a small ball of paper hits his cheek, and he glances over to Queen for a second before glancing up to the front of the room.

There he is, strolling through the office with heeded steps, heading for the boss’ office. An older man—too old to be an assistant; an agent or manager, perhaps—walks with a swift pace to keep up with him. His brows are low, formidable, as he glances over the abundance of cubicles and desks, and his eyes catch Zayn’s for a split second before they’re willed away by the corner he rounds. When he disappears behind is boss’ door with a slam and the whispers die down into low and unrestrained mumbles, and Annie rushes over to Georgie and Billie to gossip and gush, Zayn finds his heart beating two-fold in his chest.

Queen is looking at him with wide eyes and an expression partial to concern, because Harry Styles’ is in their office building, and they both know what it’s about. And Zayn has never really been one to regret the things he does—and he doesn’t; he doesn’t regret it—but, for a second, in a moment where he feels the intimidating prowess of celebrity aura crushing over him, and the few other people who know what it’s about, too, who read his article and have put two and two together, glance over at him with eyes that scream they’re glad not to be him, the whole thing makes him wish he took that job over at The Telegraph instead.

“D’you think—”

“You know it is, Queenie.”

Zayn stands to his feet, pulls his blazer off the back, slips it on, and sits back down. He gulps the rest of his coffee and taps on the edge of his desk as he waits.

“What are you doing?” Queen asks.

“Well, I think they’re gonna call me in,” he says, “and I might be fired.”

“I don’t think they’ll fire you, you’re one of the best writers here.”

Zayn hums. “Maybe.” The phone on Zayn’s desk rings, and they share a glance between them before he picks it up. “Hi, Ange.”

“Mr. Pemsel wants to see you,” she says.

“Alright, I’ll go down, cheers,” he replies, and puts the phone down. Zayn huffs and looks to Queen, who gives him a sympathetic, side-lipped smile. “Wish me luck.”

“That never works.”

“Right,” Zayn mutters under his breath and stands from his desk.

His feet are heavy as they walk down the hallway, like he’s got stones in the soles all of a sudden, and he wipes the sweat of his palms on the thighs of his trousers and shifts his hair around before he knocks on the door and enters. The raised voice on the other side doesn’t quieten as he opens the door, and he goes unnoticed in the midst of the altercation—Harry stands over his boss’ desk, almost barking as he speaks, and he’s positioned so even his boss doesn’t see Zayn stood in the doorway. Even Harry’s friend, who sits in the chair to the side, doesn’t spot him, looking down at the newspaper in his hands—page 2; Zayn’s article.

“I don’t give a fuck about your papers,” Harry seethes.

“And what makes you think I give a damn about yours?”

“It’s actually quite a good article,” Harry’s friend says, “written well, comedic twist. It’s a satisfying read.”

Harry glares over at him. “I thought you were on my side, here.”

“I am, I just think it’s funny, is all.”

“This could ruin my reputation, Tony, could be the penny that tips it over. It’s not fucking funny.”

“You mean, your reputation as a drug-sniffing, modern day Lothario?” Tony questions, and Harry narrows his eyes at him. Tony shrugs. “Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this will help you straighten up your act, make you think about corrupting your rep more than you already have.”

“Straighten my—” Harry pauses to scoff. “You realise that if I go down, you go down with me, right? I keep us afloat.”

“No, you keep our paycheque’s afloat,” Tony corrects. “If it’s not you, it’s some other upcoming Rockstar diva, who gives us more hassle than they’re worth, which is still probably less than you.”

The edges of Zayn’s lip widen into a smirk as he listens on, impressed that anyone really has the balls to face up and say something to Harry’s face, and he gives the guy his two coins because it’s a risky thing to sit behind a computer screen and post a publicly condemning article, but it takes even more gumption to not take Harry’s shit—or anyones, really, he’s willing to guess—with no trepidation and more self-preservation than he’s seen in anyone in a situation like this.

Harry’s eyes leave Tony and wander back to the boss, who sits at his desk looking indifferent, unconcerned, as if the whole situation is more like an itch he can’t quite reach than an encumberment to his day, his company. Harry’s hand comes down onto the desk and a stack of papers and a small lamp clatter against the floor. David’s face remains blank and composed, but Zayn sees the cocky twitch of annoyance on his lips.

“What do you want me to do, Mr. Styles?” he asks, folding his arms in front of him. “I’m open to reasonable negotiation.”

“I want the article retracted. I want every newspaper with this article in it, burned. I want it gone. And I want whatever cock-sucking, half-witted wanker who wrote it fired for slander,” Harry demands. He’s pressing his fingers down onto the desk, pointing between the newspaper on the desk and David. His voice is pressing, broad and barking, like he’s the boss and not David.  

“We distributed thousands of units of this newspaper, and the ones that aren’t sold are sitting in petrol stations and supermarkets over the country. It’s an impossible ask for us to regather all of those newspapers into our factory and _burn them_ ,” David says, as if it’s completely ridiculous, and Zayn agrees it is. “As for firing, well, no one has broken any laws, and so I’m not obligated to fire someone just because you aren’t happy with our content. And the man who wrote that article is one of our best writers, there’s no way I’m getting rid of him.”

A burst of relief settles over Zayn’s shoulders as they relax.

“Zayn Malik,” Tony says, and Zayn’s sucks in a breath because he thinks he’s been seen, but as he looks over, Tony is squinting over the fine print to read the name at the bottom of the article. He nods. “Talented lad.”

“Talented lad? A talented—he absolutely _slaughtered_ me in that article, and you think it’s good?” Harry’s hand pulls at his hair. “That’s the one thing you’ve decided to say, right now?”

“I think, anyone who has the ability to piss you off or make you feel threatened has talent, though that isn’t a difficult thing to do,” Tony mutters. “Besides, those who are brave enough to say anything negative about you, especially when you’re at the most sensitive pique of your career, earns my respect. They’re rare and unashamed. He seems an authentic writer.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with the prick,” Harry cries. He walks backwards and forwards along the desk.

The tension, the stress, in his whole body resonates over to Zayn as he stands in the open doorway, cheeks heating from being so uncomfortable. He knows he should speak up again, knock on the door or something to make his presence known, but his feet feel cemented to the floor and there’s this lump in his throat that stops his tongue from manifesting words. He doesn’t have to look back to know there’s an audience gathered at the end of the hallway, hesitatingly listening on with nosy ears to see what rumours they can make from this one.

“I’m not siding with him, Harry, I just won’t deny talent when I see it,” Tony defends.

“This isn’t talent” – Harry picks up the newspaper from the desk and angrily shakes it in David’s face – “this is pure _shit_. How someone even thought that it was in their best interests to write this about me is beyond me. But, I suppose I can see how a low-life tosser could be desperate enough to scrap this together for a minimum wage. Got nothing better to do, has he?”

Zayn scoffs under his breath, teeth grinding together. This swell of anger and offence thumps in his chest, but he remains silent. He almost wants to laugh at how Harry is proving him right, how he’s acting the epitome of what he wrote about in his article. But it’s just these walls that are witness to it, and if he told anyone outside of the office about what he was seeing they wouldn’t believe him, because the updated world seems to be camping out in Harry Styles’ arse, and Zayn’s the underdog who wants an ephemeral moment of fame.

Precious, altruistic, loving Harry Styles. What a load of bollocks.

“You’re being brash and irrational and unrealistic,” Tony says. “What you’re asking for is out of my reach, out of anyone’s reach. They guy can’t erase papers that have already been printed, Harry. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Fire the guy who wrote it.”

“I’m not firing him for doing his job.”

“Then, fire him for slander, for exploiting my name and dragging it through the dirt.”

“Mr. Styles, you’re forgetting that you exploit young, impressionable girls every day,” David retaliates with a calm voice. “It’s no time to start comparing actions, but we will if you would like that.”

The room falls into a thrice of silence, and Tony chuckles under his breath.

“Then, we’ll file a lawsuit and sue you.” Harry shrugs. “It’s simple.”

“We aren’t going to sue them because your ego is hurt, Harry,” Tony says.

“Your agent is right—”

“He’s my manager,” Harry corrects, “and I’m thinking I need a fucking new one.”

“Fine, get a new one, but you’ll struggle to find someone who puts up with as much of your shit as I do, as our team does,” Tony warns. “Look, this isn’t a huge deal, at all. Bad publicity is better than no publicity, and the public soaks up shit like this every day. They sit around waiting for it, and it benefits you.”

“It benefits my _career_.”

“Which is all anyone cares about.”

Harry huffs, his arms rising and falling against his thighs. “Fine, if you aren’t going to do anythin—”

He pauses as he turns around and spots Zayn stood in the doorway. His angry façade falls for a moment, shoulders slumping and eyes quietening, before the hard defence returns and his lips thin into a line.

David stands from his chair. “Zayn.”

Harry looks over his shoulder to his Pemsel and back to Zayn in quick succession, eyes becoming slits.

Zayn swallows and takes a step forward. “Yes, sir?”

“How long have you been stood there?” his boss asks.

“A few minutes,” Tony says before Zayn can.

“Did Angie call you over?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m sorry you had to hear this,” David says. “I was just going to tell you that you can leave early, if you finished the notes on the Sony article you were going to do. I heard it was your son’s birthday today.”

Zayn looks around the room—to the open windows, the grey and mulled carpet, the many frames on the walls—and back to his boss, avoiding Harry’s gaze altogether.

“Yes, sir, it is, we’re throwing him a birthday party.”

“And how old is he?”

“He’s two.”

“A difficult age.” His boss nods.

Though Zayn still sees the frustration in Harry’s expression, his shoulders, in the grip of the newspaper in his hand as it crinkles and folds awkwardly, Harry looks away, down to the floor, silent—a staggering opposition to the roar of a man who stood in his place seconds ago.

There’s a knowing, mutual look on David’s face as their eyes meet, and Zayn nods lowly at him in appreciation. It’s a smart trick, to pull out of the hat like that, and he revokes being mad at Billie for eavesdropping on his conversation last week with his ex-wife and telling the office his business. A part of him thinks that wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway.

“Well, you can leave early then, seeming as you’re such a busy family man,” David says with a smile. “Wish your son a happy birthday for me.”

“I will, thank you, sir.”

Zayn gives one last look to Harry, soaks up all the resentment being sent his way like a sponge, lets it gyrate in his lungs, and releases it all in one deep breath as he shuts the door behind him. His feet feel even heavier walking away, knowing the complication he’s caused. And he doesn’t feel guilty for Harry, not at all—he’d be fucked if he did—but his sympathy goes out to his boss and the mess he’s created in his day for him.

Everyone who was clustered into a group disperses off as Zayn falls back into the monotony of the workplace, some of them whispering under their breath.

“What happened?” Queen asks before Zayn even gets back to his desk.

“Nothing,” Zayn answers. “He just, uh… he gave me the afternoon off, for Jude’s birthday.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, thank fuck for that,” he says. “I thought you were gonna get fired and I was gonna have to sit next to some new dickhead. And, obviously, you’d lose your job.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the most opportune thing to happen, right now.” Zayn orders the papers on his desk into a pile and logs his computer off. He tucks his coffee flask into the bag he swings over his shoulder. “You wanna come to Jude’s party? He likes you.”

“We don’t all have the afternoon off, but I would if I could,” he says. “Tell the little guy happy birthday for me.” He tucks into his top desk drawer and pulls out a present no bigger than his palm. “Here.”

“You didn’t have to, mate.”

“Nah, but I wanted to. He’s my little best dude.” His face turns serious, and he pats Zayn’s arm. “Did, uh… did anything happen? With Harry Styles, I mean. There was a bunch of people stood around and I couldn’t see, and whilst I could hear his big gob from here I didn’t make out much from it.”

Zayn shrugs. “Just waffling on about some stupid shit, thinks I’m gonna ruin his career.”

Queen raises his brows. “Blimey.”

“Yeah, well, if one small article is going to ruin his career, he’s not a very great celebrity, is he?” he says. The boss’ door at the end of the hall opens ajar, and Zayn grabs his coat from underneath the desk. “Right, I’m off, before I clash into the big guy in the hallway and it turns into a cringey cliché where I notice how blue his eyes are, or some shit.”

Harry and Tony step out into the hallway.

“Better take the stairs.”

 

\+ + + +

 

“When’s the little guy coming back?” Niall asks as he hangs a banner across the kitchen lintel.

A table sits in the front room full of party food, plates, cups—a bottle of cherryade, because he knows Jude wouldn’t call it a birthday party without his favourite pop, even though the doctor advised Zayn not to give it to him. There’s a packet of blown-up balloons wandering on the ceiling with long strings, so Jude can pull them down if he jumps high enough, and there’s glitter in the carpet Zayn knows he won’t get out for weeks.

He stands at the kitchen counter, finishing off the rest of the sandwiches and sipping on a glass of wine before everyone gets back, because God knows he needs it today. Zayn looks to the clock on the wall.

“He’ll be here soon. Mum’s picked him up from school and she’s bringing him straight over with the family,” he says.

“It’s a shame his mum couldn’t be here.” Niall leans on the counter beside him and steals a sandwich. “Don’t think you can go wrong with an egg and mayo sandwich.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles. He puts the kitchenware in the sink, the butter back in the fridge.

“Yeah to which one of those?”

“Both, I suppose, though I’m more of a ploughman’s type of guy,” he says. “Do you think I should cover these? They might go stale by the time they’re eaten.”

“Sure,” is all Niall says, because they both know he doesn’t really know anything about food, and Zayn doesn’t really know why he asked him.

He wraps cling film over the plate and sets it onto the only place left on the table in the front room.

“No hot food?”

“It’s a kid’s party, you don’t need hot food,” Zayn says. “Though, mum might have cooked summat.”

“There’s not many kids coming to this kid’s party.” Niall hums. “Just us and his family.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zayn sinks into the sofa with a sigh, getting the few minutes of rest he can before the whole house is filled with noise that breaks his usually quiet and introverted evening. “He hasn’t got many friends.”

“We’re his friends.”

“I mean, like, school friends. He has one, I think, and he can’t come, I asked his parents,” Zayn says. “Think he had an afterschool club, or summat.”

“Probably just didn’t want the kid to come.”

“Yeah. It’s not worth stressing about, though. Jude won’t mind that much, really. He loves his family a lot and he’s always smiling when he’s around them, so I’m not too fussed. I’ll cut him some cake to take for his friend tomorrow at school.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“Already?” Zayn blows his cheeks out. “No cake, then.”

The front door knocks, and a bustle of people flit into the living room. Jude runs in first, a wide gasp on his face and a huge smile. He drops his lunch box at the door way and jumps onto Zayn’s lap.

“Baba, Baba, Baba!” he squeals and buries himself into Zayn’s shoulder in a hug.

Zayn wraps his arms around him. “Hey, birthday boy. How was reception?”

“Good. Miss Darby made the class sing happy birthday to me,” he says, excitedly. “I missed you, Baba. School is _so_ long. Why is it longer than it used to be before?”

“Because you’re in reception now, you’ve gotta do full days at school. I think we have this conversation, like, twice a week.”

“But I don’t get to see you as much.” He pouts.

“You didn’t get to see me anyway, baby, I was at work.”

“Yeah, but it’s different.”

“I know it is.” Zayn softly strokes Jude’s cheek. “I’d work less and see you more if I could.”

“But if you didn’t work, we wouldn’t be able to have ice cream,” he says, so over-enthusiastic and hyped over the littlest thing. “I love ice cream.”

“More than you love me?” Zayn asks.

“No, Baba, don’t be silly.” He giggles and falls into Zayn’s chest. 

All the tension and the worry in Zayn’s mind melts away into an endeared smile. His mum comes over and kisses them both, and his sisters say hello, and he’s reminded after a stressful day that nothing else really matters apart from this: his family, his friends.

He kisses Jude on the cheek. “I missed you, too, baby.”

“Is this for me, Baba?” he asks as he looks around at the banners and balloons. He gasps. “And cake? I’m not allowed cake.”

“Well, you are today, little guy.” Niall ruffles Jude’s hair. “You’re four, now. You’re getting old.”

“I’m not getting old.”

“You say that, but then you’ll be my age.”

“I’d like to think he’s gonna achieve more at your age than you have,” Zayn says.

Niall looks offended for a moment, but then shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Jude crawls off Zayn’s lap and starts to jump to catch the balloons, laughing to himself. His sister’s say a quick hello—and by that, he means he got a hug off Safaa, a scorning off Donya, and a teenaged grunt off Wahliya—and his father pats him on the back and gives him a small fatherly talk before he escapes into the kitchen for a glass of quiet.

“Are you alright, darling?” his mum asks.

“Yeah, fine,” he assures. “I’m just used to home being quiet after a busy day at work.”

“We won’t be here too long, just wanted to see my little baby, both my little babies.” Tricia takes his face in her hands and kisses his cheek. “How are you? Are you okay? How’s work going?”

“Fine.” He nods. “It’s going good.”

“Are you eating?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes, Mum.”

She swallows her lips. “I read the article.”

Zayn raises his chin and drop it. “Ah.”

“And I’ve read some of the backlash you’ve been getting,” she says. “Some of the things people say… I really do hate social media.”

“You hate it ‘cause you’re getting old,” he jokes, and brings her in for a hug. “And I wouldn’t pay attention to what they say, Mum. I don’t. Haven’t read half of it.”

“Good, I don’t want them filling your head with ideas about yourself.”

“I’ve got a stronger resolve than that, Mum,” he defends.

“Yes, darling, but I also know how sensitive you can be, how you take things to heart, sometimes.”

He mumbles, “Suppose that’s fair.”

Tricia smiles at him and turns back to the kettle. “Tea?” Zayn picks up his half empty glass of wine and raises it so she can see. She laughs. “Right. So, something else happened at work?”

“How d’you know?”

“Because you’re drinking wine, and it’s an age-old sign of stress.”

“Can’t I just enjoy a nice glass of Pinot?”

“Sure, but you don’t really drink anymore, and I know you because you’re my son,” she says, one brow quirked, and Zayn knows he isn’t going to really slip past this one.

He sighs. “Harry Styles came into my work place,” he says. “He wanted me fired.”

Her mouth parts and she pauses. “You got fired?”

“No, no, David didn’t fire me. He gave me the afternoon off instead.”

“Oh. Okay, well, that’s good.”

Zayn hums. “So, I won’t be moving back home just yet,” he teases, “even though, I know you want me to.”

“I’d never protest to my baby coming back home to live with me.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

“Although, you could find someone…” she says, wincing as she does, like she knows she shouldn’t say it, but she does.

“Mum,” Zayn groans and throws his head to the ceiling.

“I’m just saying, love, that it might be a bit easier for you if you found someone,” she says. “And I don’t care who that is, you know me and your father and your sisters don’t care about that kind of stuff. I just want you to find someone you can be happy with, someone who will make you happy.”

“I know, Ma. It’s just not that easy to find someone, it’s not like in the films where you fall in love at first sight and you’re with each other forever. I’ve been on plenty of dates,” he says. “And, I think I’m just more hesitant ‘cause of Jude. I don’t want to confuse him by meeting someone and it not working out, or making him uncomfortable, or making him think I don’t have time for him. I barely have time for myself sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t let Jude hold you back. He’s a really welcoming kid, he takes to people easily.”

“But I don’t just want to let strangers into my house around my kid.”

“That’s what dates are for, darling.” Tricia strokes his hair and kisses his cheek. “It’s nice when you have someone, when you can share what you have with them and be shared in return. Someone to protect you and help you when you need it.”

“I know, but I have Niall in the mean time,” Zayn says, reiterating when his mum gives him a strange look, “not romantically, but you know what I mean. He’s as good as an extra father sometimes.”

“Don’t put yourself down, darling, you’re the best dad Jude could ask for, best dad I could’ve raised you to be,” she praises. “And I’m so proud.”

Zayn sends back her smile. “Thanks, mum.”

“Baba!” he hears Jude call, and his little feet are padding into the kitchen seconds later, his face bright and flushed. “Baba, can we cut the cake? Can we eat cake?”

“Did you get into the red sauce already?” he asks, spotting the circles of red at the edges of his lips and wiping them away with his thumb.

“Yeah. Baba, can we have cake?”

“You haven’t been back long; the cake is for later on.”

“We’ve been here for ages,” he draws out, “for hours and hours.”

“Jude, it’s been fifteen minutes.”

He glistens his fingers in front of him, as if he’s pretending to hypnotise. “No, we haven’t,” he says in a spooky voice.

“Yes, we have,” Zayn imitates, and pulls him up into his arms, kissing over his cheeks and his nose and making Jude giggle. “What have you been digging into?”

“The sandwiches, and the party sausages, and I had one of those cheese thingy-things,” he says.

“Thingy-things, huh?” Zayn grins.  

“I wanted to touch the cake, but uncle Niall stopped me. Baba, can we please have cake?”

“We can cut the cake now, if you want, darling,” Tricia says. “D’you mind if I cut some for your cousins?”

“Uh, sure. You don’t mind sharing the cake, do you, jaan?” Zayn asks Jude, and he shakes his head. “I mean, it’s a small cake, so we’ll just have to cut the slices thin.”

  

\+ + + +

 

With his sisters and his dad squished onto the small settee, Niall idly playing his guitar on the floor and entertaining Jude, and the low mumble of the TV in the background, Zayn almost misses the ring of his phone. He doesn’t pick it up in time, and when he checks the screen he sees a multitude of missed calls, all off the same number.

He frowns and moves to the hallway for privacy whilst he rings the number back.

“My son,” she says as she answers the phone. “My son, where have you been?”

“Ekaterina, hi. I was going to call—” he begins, but a sob emits through the line and he pauses with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you. Are you alone?” she asks, her accent thick; it always is when she’s crying.

“Uh…” He checks behind him and closes the front room door. “Yeah, yeah I’m alone,” he says, and waits. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Something has happened, something… ужа’сный,” she says, sniffling. “Something has happened to Dmitry.”

Zayn takes a deep breath. “Uhm, okay. Well, is there anything I can do? I don’t think there is much I _can_ do from across the world, but I can—”

“He’s dead, Valentin,” she chokes out, and her cries fill the phone. “He’s dead, he’s gone.”

The frown falls from his face and his expression falls limp as the words sink in, and the blurriness covers his eyes before he realises he’s crying, the dryness of his mouth making him swallow. The phone is still to his hear, and there’s a voice playing through the line, but he can’t focus for long enough to understand what she’s saying. His eyes are on the cracked and chipped paint on the wooden frame of the front door, and he falls back to sit onto the stairs, with a supporting hand on the bannister.

The front room door squeaks open and shuts again, and Tricia is at his side in a second.

“Darling, what’s going on?”

He puts the phone down, ignoring the voice at the other end of the line, and Tricia wipes a tear from his face as it falls.

“It’s, uhm… I’ve got to go to Russia.” Zayn swallows and sniffs. “Dmitry’s dead. He’s gone.Zayn’s lip quivers, and Tricia brings him in for a hug. “Oh, baby,” she says, “I’m so sorry, darling.” She kisses his head, pulls him in closer. “I’m sorry. I know you weren’t very close, but…”

“Of all days,” Zayn says and exhales deeply, trying to blink back the tears but there’s an abundance of them, and they freely fall. “Just my luck.”

He’s trying to hold the tears in, trying to reign them back, because he knows that when he cries his eyes go red for hours, and there’s a whole party sat in the room across from them and there’s no way he could hide it from anyone—especially not Jude, and he knows how sensitive his son is to things like this, picks up on senses and emotions deeply, like his dad, and he doesn’t want to encumber the happy environment. But his mum is hugging him, and she brings her hand up to stroke his hair, and he falls into the pit of her shoulder and cries. He cries softly, quietly, so no one else will hear him. And after a few minutes his eyes are already sore, and he’s left a wet patch on his mum’s cardigan as he pulls away. Tricia leads them both into the kitchen and shuts the door behind them.

Zayn leans against the sink and looks out into the garden, the line of trees by the forest behind their house, and the clouds superimpose the sun as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He feels the moment where the numbness kicks in; when he’s stopped crying, stopped doing anything, really, and there’s no blinks to pause the stare out into the sky, and he feels like he can’t take a deep breath, but he doesn’t try. His mum passes him a tissue and rubs his back, comfortingly.

“Are you okay, darling?” she asks.

He shrugs and looks down to the sink. “I don’t know.”

“You will be,” she assures.

“I didn’t even really know him,” he says, “which, I think, is the weirdest part, you know, about why I feel so upset about it. But, I mean, it doesn’t feel like I’ve lost a family member, but… I have. It’s so strange, so strange. I’m gonna mourn a stranger, but it feels like more, but not enough to be family, but…” He huffs in frustration, “somewhere in be-fucking-tween.”

“It’s understandable that you’re confused about it,” she says. “I would be.”

“I’m gonna have to go to Russia.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, there’s gonna be a funeral for him. I think mo—I think Ekaterina said when, but I didn’t—I don’t remember, I wasn’t listening properly. I just put the phone down,” he mutters. “God, I’m such an idiot. She’s grieving, and I put the phone down on her, for fuck sake.”

“You’re mourning, too, now, it’s okay. She’ll forgive you,” Tricia says.

Zayn chokes out this unhumorous laugh. “You’ve never met a Russian mother, Mum. They’re unforgiving.”

“What are you gonna do about Jude? Do you want me to have him whilst you go?”

Zayn rubs at his eyes with his palms. “I don’t think I can even _think_ about planning it out yet. I don’t know, probably, yeah, if that’s okay. I’m definitely not going to let him stay with Niall.”

“That’s okay, darling, we’ll talk about it closer to the time, let your head settle a little, first,” she says, and Zayn nods. “I’m going to go and check on everyone. I’ll let you have a bit to yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She kisses his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mum.”

He’s not alone for five minutes before Jude is running into the room.

“Baba?” he says, quietly. He wraps his arms around Zayn’s leg and leans into his thigh. “Baba, are you sad?”

“I’m okay, baby.” Zayn picks him up and brings him into his arms. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“I do, Baba, I love you,” he says, and Zayn’s chest swells. “I want you to smile big, like that weird cat from Alice in Wonderland.”

Zayn laughs. “I don’t look like a weird cat, do I?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Zayn rocks him in his arms. “You mean, when I wear my purple stripy shirt?”

“Yeah.” Zayn pretends to attack Jude’s neck, tickling him with the stubble of his beard. “Baba, stop it! No, Baba.”

“Okay, alright.” Zayn’s laughs simmer down into a serious expression, and he smiles sweetly at Jude before sitting him down on the kitchen counter. “Listen, babe, I’ve got summat to tell you.”

“What?”

“Baba thinks he’s gonna have to go away for a few days,” he says. The light-hearted look on his son’s face falls, and his little shoulders drop, and Zayn feels the guilt already seeping in. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he assures, “but I have to go and see some friends over in Russia.”

“The really, really cold place?”

“Yeah. Well, it’s only really cold in the winter, but yeah.” He pushes Jude’s flighty hair from his forehead. “It’ll only be a few days, a week at the most. I was thinking, maybe, you could stay with Nana? And you can play with your cousin’s and take your toys if you want.”

“What about school?”

“Nana can take you to school and pick you up, like she did today, or like those days where I have to go to work early.”

Jude’s eyes well up at the bottom. “Are you leaving today? It’s my birthday.”

“No, baby, no,” he coos, and kisses his little hands. “I’m not going today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I don’t know when it will be, but it’ll be some time soon. I’m not leaving today, darling, don’t worry.”

“But, I’ll miss you, Baba,” he says, and his bottom lip goes all pouty.

Zayn wipes away Jude’s tears with the pad of his thumb and kisses his forehead. “I’ll miss you, too, meri jaan. I’ll be as quick as I can, there and back, whoosh. And, before you know it, I’ll be back here with you, picking you up from school.”

“Can we go to Dominoes?”

“What? Now?”

“No, when you get back.”

Zayn laughs at the cheek and the cute, little giggles that leave Jude’s lips, because, of course, he’d take advantage of the situation to try and score in his shot when the defences are down; because Jude knows they don’t do Dominoes, but it never stops him from asking. 

“Maybe, alright? I’ll think about it. But, I still think my homemade pizza is better.”

There’s a knock on the kitchen door, and Zayn turns around to see Niall’s head pop around the corner, a plate of food in his hand.

“Alright, lads?” he says. He puts the plate of food on the counter beside Jude and ruffles his hair. “For your daddy, ‘cause he hasn’t eaten yet and he’s always pestering everyone else about it.”

“I’m not really hungry at the moment,” Zayn says.

“Yeah, your mam told me what happened.” He smiles side-lipped, eyes crinkled at the side; more than a grimace than anything. “Sorry, man.”

“S’alright.”

“What happened?” Jude asks, innocently.

“Nothing, darling. I’ve just got to go see those people I said about, yeah?”

“What people?” Niall asks.

“Baba’s going to Russia!”

He widens his eyes. “Oh, right? And when’s this happening?”

“Dunno, maybe some time at the end of the month, but I’m not sure,” Zayn says. “It’s the f-u-n-e-r-a-l,” he spells out, so Jude doesn’t understand him.

Niall lifts his chin. “Ah. Well, I can look after this one while you’re gone, ay, mate?” He pushes at Jude’s side. “We could rule the world whilst your daddy’s in Russia.”

“No,” Zayn quickly says, at the same time Jude says, “Yeah!”

“Why not? It’ll be fun, won’t it?” he asks Jude.

“Yeah, that’s the point. It’ll be too much fun,” Zayn mumbles. “I’m not gonna let a kid look after another kid and look after the house at the same time. I feel like I’m a father to two most of the time.”

Both Niall and Jude moan, but they say nothing further on it. Niall pinches his cheeks and pokes at his ribs to tickle him, and Zayn laughs when Jude swats him away with a grumpy look.

“I want to go play with Safaa,” Jude says.

“Isn’t that Auntie Safaa to you, lad?” Niall asks.

“No.”

Zayn kisses his cheek and lifts him off the counter. “Go on, baby.” Zayn watches him stumble out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “He doesn’t want to play with Safaa,” he says. “He just wants more cake. He stole the strawberries off my slice.”

“So’s he gonna stay with ye mam?”

“Yeah.” Zayn chews at his fingernails. “But, I can, uhm, I can see if mum wants to drop him off here for a few hours a day if you want to see him, I know you love him a lot, and he loves you, and being around you would probably make him feel more comfortable, being home for a little bit. Or mum can have him in the days and you can have him at nights, so he can sleep in his own bed with his teddies.”

“Yeah, alright, mate. That sounds good,” Niall says. He taps Zayn on the back before going in for a hug. “As long as you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” he muffles into Niall’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got you lot to keep me sane.”

“Or drive you nuts. Either one.”

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah, most likely. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They pull back as a chorus of noise comes from the front room, and Jude’s loud cries call out. Niall and Zayn look to each other, one humorous and the other groaning.

“He gets into just as much trouble as you did when you were younger,” Niall says.

“If he’s as bad as me, God fucking help me now.”

 

\+ + + +

 

Zayn never was a huge fan of trains: it’s knowing that he’s in a confined space, he thinks, knowing that he can’t get out, can’t open the window wide enough to catch a deep breath if he needs to, and it always gets so stuffy in the small compartments that the windows fog up on the cold days. As a child he was the same; except for his little toy trains he’d _chugger-chugger_ through the carpet, between the trackways made of Lego’s and foam bricks.

He leans his arm against the window, his phone pressed to his ear, staring at the sweeping scenes of forestry and city as they pass by in a blur. His legs are jittery against the floor, and his fingers are craving to hold a cigarette—his tongue almost burning at the loss—but the no-smoking sticker is shooting daggers at him from the door, and the nicotine stays, thumping, in his pocket.

 _“Did you say somethin’ to Queen?”_ Niall asks through the phone.

“I say a lot to Queen, I work with him.”

_“You know what I mean.”_

Zayn smirks. “I may have told him to stop pussy-footing around and talk to you. Why?”

_“He came ‘round today.”_

“Oh, grew some balls, did he?”

_“We just had a chat and a cup of coffee.”_

“You don’t drink coffee, Ni.”

_“Yeah, well, I pretended to for the mornin’.”_

“Well, that’s not a good way to start off a relationship.”

 _“It’s not a relationship,”_ Niall quickly defends, “ _it was just coffee.”_

“Right.” Zayn hums. “By the time I get home, you two’ll be fucking, I’m betting in.”

 _“Don’t be daft,”_ Niall says, scoffing, but it holds no conviction. He’s quiet for a moment. _“D’ya think so?”_

“Well, if you aren’t, I might have to,” he says, before reiterating, “fuck Queen, not you. I’m a bit desperate, I’ve gotta be honest.”

_“Fuck off.”_

“No, I’m serious. There’s some serious tension in the office, and I’m a single, horny dad going through a strife,” he goads. “Nothing long term, just a good one, you know how it is.”

He’s silent for a good minute, and Zayn hears the tapping of his fingers against the surface of their kitchen counter. “ _I’ll invite him over tomorrow.”_

“No dirty business on the kitchen counters or the settee’s, yeah? Strictly bedrooms. Not my bedroom, just yours. Just your bedroom.”

 _“Zayn, I’m not gonna fu—I’m not gonna do that with him_ ,” Niall says. “ _Just gonna get to know him.”_

“You’ve known him for three years, now.”

 _“Yeah, briefly. I mean, like, get to know him a little bit more. And I don’t mean that in a sexual way, dirty bastard_ ,” he mumbles.

Zayn laughs. “How’s my baby?”

“ _He’s good, he’s watchin’ Pocahontas in the living room_.” The front door squeaks open. _“Hey, Judy, you wanna talk to Daddy?”_

Zayn hears Jude’s little squeals, and the phone ruffles as it’s passed over.

_“Baba! Baba, I miss you a lot.”_

“A hello would suffice, but I miss you, too, my love.”

_“Are you coming back now?”_

“I’ve only been gone for a few hours,” Zayn says, chuckling. “There’s a little bit longer to go.”

_“How long?”_

“Just over a week.”

Zayn sees the crocodile tears in his mind before he hears them in the little whimper Jude lets out.

 _“But that’s a long time_ ,” he quietly says, sniffling.

“I know it is, but don’t get upset, okay, baby?” he says. “You’re going to the zoo tomorrow with Uncle Niall and Nanny, yeah? And you’ll have fun and forget all about missing me.”

_“Who’s gonna tuck me in?”_

“Uncle Niall can.”

_“But he doesn’t know how to do it proper. Only you can tuck me in.”_

“Well, you’re gonna have to teach him how to do it properly,” Zayn says, and Jude whimpers. “You’ll be okay, baby. And if you miss me, just hold Fiver and he’ll keep you safe, okay?”

“ _Okay_ ,” Jude says. “ _I love you, Baba.”_

Zayn smiles. “More than ice cream?”

“ _Yes, more than ice cream. But not mint chocolate chip.”_

“I’ll accept that,” Zayn says, and they both giggle. “I’m gonna go now, baby, okay?”

_“Can you call me before bedtime?”_

“How about I call you in the morning before school?”

_“Okay.”_

“I love you. Be good.”

_“I love you, too, Baba.”_

“Pass me back on to Uncle Niall.”

Zayn shares a laugh with himself as he listens to Jude try and bluff himself into having ice cream before bedtime.

 _“I almost believed him for a second, little sod_ ,” Niall says. _“He’s just like you.”_

“Wouldn’t be my son if he wasn’t.”

Niall hums. _“Where are you now?”_

“I got off the first train about an hour ago, I’m on my way to Dover, now.”

_“And you’ll be in France…”_

“I’ll be in Calais by late evening,” Zayn says. “I’m picking up a rental car later.”

_“You’re alright, yeah? I know you don’t like trains.”_

“I’m fine, Ni.”

_“Listen, try not to worry about the little guy, alright? We’re gonna take good care of him, me and ya mam. He’s in good hands.”_

“I know he is.” Zayn huffs as his nose begins to sting and his eyes become sore at the edges. “I’m gonna miss him. I think I need him more than he needs me.”

“ _You’ll be fine, both of ya will be_ ,” Niall assures. _“You’re just a facetime away.”_

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles. “I really appreciate you helping to look after him. Mum stresses a lot about my sisters, having another one on top probably doesn’t help.”

_“Nah, she loves Jude.”_

“Yeah, but he’s young, they’re always more difficult to handle. And she’s getting old—don’t tell her I said that.”

_“If you let me use your coffee, I won’t.”_

“How did you turn this around to you using my coffee?” Zayn laughs.

 _“If I’m gonna be seein’ this guy more, I’m gonna need better coffe_ e _,”_ Niall tries to reason. _“I’ll restock it all by the time you get back.”_

Zayn sighs. “Alright, fine. And, look, don’t give Jude any ice cream before bed, alright? He always gets bellyache. I’m warning you now, he’s persuasive.”

_“I won’t, I won’t. M’not gonna let a four-year-old get the better of me.”_

“Right, we’ll see about that.” Zayn looks back out the window as the train begins to slow and the station rolls past the glass. He brings his phone from his ear and checks the time. “Listen, mate, the train’s pulling up to the station, and I can’t be late for the ferry. I must’ve lost track of time.”

_“All good, man. I’ll talk to you later, alright? Make sure you let me know ya get there safely.”_

“I will.”

Zayn tucks his phone into his pocket and grabs his bags from the overhead compartment, his suitcase rolling along behind him and knocking into the corners of the doorframe as he heads out. He shrugs his coat on when he gets outside, the humid air having turned cool and nipping at his skin, and he hands a man his ferry ticket and climbs on board. He gets all the way to the hall that leads to his room when he knocks into someone rounding the corner. His bag drops from his hand from the blow to his shoulder, and his suitcase falls on the floor.

“Sorry, man, I—” he begins, but his tongue falls dry when he sees who it is.

And he doesn’t seem to be too pleased to see Zayn either. In fact, the scowl on his face almost turns Zayn back to the exit.

“Isn’t this my fucking luck,” Harry grumbles. “Sharing a trip with one of the worst journalists in London.”

“It’s not like this is the most pleasant greeting for me, either,” Zayn mutters. He picks his suitcase up from the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I’m assuming. Unless you’ve forgotten, there’s only one place a ferry to Calais can take you,” Harry says, condescendingly.

“Is there any need to be such an asshole?” Zayn snatches his other bag from the floor, relaying Harry’s glare back to him. “I’m just trying to get somewhere, I didn’t ask for you to be here.”

“You should ask yourself that question the next time you try to sully someone’s name,” Harry sneers.

“Yeah, well, if you think the shittiest journalist in London can sully your name…” Zayn almost laughs.  

Harry takes a step towards him, and he seems thrown off when Zayn holds his feet instead of stumbling back. “Don’t write anything about me this time, yeah? Wouldn’t want your family to go without their shitty little council house roof over their heads.”

Zayn grits his jaw. “I wouldn’t worry about that, mate. My last paycheque was enough to pay for months, maybe even buy a house,” he lies. “Should probably thank you.”

“I doubt that.” Harry hums, sees straight through the lie, but Zayn holds his smirk. “Just heed the warning, mate.” 

“Yeah? Or what?” Zayn challenges. “One of the perks of being a journalist in my position is that I can write about whatever I want.”

“It’s best for everyone if you don’t, because if you do I will take you to court, and no manager or agent can persuade me out of it, no pity calls or puppy eyes from your boss,” he threatens. “Do you even have a kid, Zayn? Or was it just a ruse to make me feel sorry for you?”

“Yes, I have a kid,” Zayn spits. “Don’t be so ridiculous, like I’d go out of my way to make false ideas to appease your sympathy.”  

Harry shakes his head. “Your issue is that you think you know me, and you don’t. You’re just a sycophantic parasite in a system controlled by postulation. You think you know someone just because newspapers and outlets are plastered with their face, because that tabloid said this, and this tabloid said that. You don’t really know anything. Nothing of use, anyway.”

Zayn scoffs. “You know, if I didn’t really know any better, I’d say that sounded rehearsed.”

Harry subtly looks him up and down. “Only _you_ would think I sit around wasting my time on people like you.”

“Oh, nice one. Been practising your best comebacks in a mirror, have you?”

Harry swallows his lips and his eyes become grainy. “Just stay away from me. We’re only on this fucking ship for an hour, and I don’t want to see you.”

Harry shoves past Zayn in the small hallway, walking in the other direction.

“It’s actually an hour and a half,” Zayn facetiously calls to him, and Harry flips him off from over his shoulder. “Fucking wanker.”

Zayn shoves his bags onto the bed and lies down beside them, his shoulders relaxing. He finds the monotony of the room calming after the hours of fast-paced trudge, from taxi to train to on the sea, but although there’s a lassitude hanging in the rims of his eyes he can’t fall asleep. He misses Jude, and Niall, and his family—even more so than he usually does because he knows he can’t see them even if he wants to. It’s the first time he’s been away from his son, and he’s not taking to it; the slow and sluggish long shifts at work sometimes feel too much for him and, if he’s honest, he’s depending more on the expectations people hold to him as an adult more than his own anxious disposition to get him through the next week.

He scrolls through the photos he has of him and Jude on his phone, like a sap, and resists the deep urge to call home again, even though it’s only been an hour since he last called. It feels strange to him, to know that he isn’t going to tuck his baby into bed tonight, or tomorrow night, or for the next two weeks—and he knows Jude is right: no one is going to do it like he does, no one can.

With a huff, he slides out onto the side of the balcony, a cigarette between his mouth before he has time to think about it, and even though the wind whipping around the boat keeps blowing out the embers he tries to smoke it anyway, because he’s desperate for the release. He leans against the door and looks out to the ocean, the sky clear and beginning to fade into a deep blue as the light fades from the sky. If he squints hard enough, the dock of Calais comes into view—just the outline, and when he looks back he can see home, or the edge of home, where’s he’s leaving most of what he knows to be safe and certain behind.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been less excited to go on holiday.

 

Z: _Guess who’s on the boat with me, I wrote about him recently._

 

Zayn sends the text and gets a message back not five minutes later.

 

N: _You gotta be shittin’ me.  
What are the odds? _

 

Zayn scoffs. “Very unlikely.”

 

Z: _Shows my luck, don’t it?_

N: _did he speak to ya?_

Z: _just some useless shit, per usual.  
     How’s my baby? _  

N: _a little tetchy_  
     I think he’s tired now, might put him to bed  
     It’s not too early is it?

Z: _8pm is late for him but I know he probably wants to stay up because I’m not there.  
If he wants to stay up, just let him. He’ll probs fall asleep on you anyway. _

N: _sound_

 

One of the wheels on Zayn’s suitcase squeaks when it rolls as he pulls it behind him, off the ramp of the ferry, and people give him off looks on the dock. He sees Harry storm past, and Zayn is surprised _not_ to see an assistant carrying his bags behind him.

He stops at the rental car company a few yards away and waits at the reception inside the small garage-like room full of cars. He waits for minutes—ten, twenty—but no one comes.

“Excuse me?” he calls to a guy in dirty dungaree’s passing by. He walks over. “I’m supposed to be picking up a car.”

“I’ll check the records,” he says. “Name?”

“Zayn Malik.”

Zayn watches him search on an old-dated computer sat in the corner of the reception desk, grubby-handed and a smear of oil over his face. He checks for a minute, two, and it’s silent. But Zayn already knows, from the low indent in the man’s brow and the bitten lip, this isn’t going to go his way.

He sighs. “Is there something wrong?”

“Uh… Well, it says there’s no Zayn Malik on our records, sir.”

Zayn frowns. “What?”

“There says there isn’t a record of—”

“No, I know what you said,” Zayn interrupts. “Can you check again, please?”

When the files come up empty, Zayn tells him to check again, and again, until the guy has to tell him the answer isn’t going to change, and Zayn has to admit that it’s gone wrong.  He runs a hand over his forehead, through his hair, over his eyes.

“I don’t get how this could happen,” he says. “I booked the car, like, two weeks ago, how could something go wrong?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have an answer.” He shrugs, a sympathetic smile on his lips. “You could always rent another car.”

“I don’t need to rent another car, I already rented one, for £400,” Zayn says. “Can I at least get a refund?”

“I’m really sorry, I can’t do anything about it if it’s not on the record,” the man tells him. “Do you have any type of, uh, receipt?”

“I booked it online.”

“There was an online receipt that could be printed out at time of purchase.”

“Well, I didn’t think I’d need it. Things like this don’t really get muddled up.” Zayn bites down on his lip, hard, and curses under his breath. “And there’s no way I can get a refund? Like, at all?”

“I’m afraid not, sir, no.”

“For fuck sake,” he groans, does a little annoyed walk and struts back. “Okay, thank you.”

“I’m sorry there’s nothing else I can do, sir.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Zayn replies, short and annoyed.

“Have a good night.”

“I’m sure I fucking will,” he grumbles as he walks away, that squeaky fucking wheel behind him that makes him want to throw the suitcase on the other side of the path. “It’s gone great so far.”

He stops at the side of the road, pulling the handle on his suitcase down and balancing his other bag on top of it. He pulls his phone out and rings Niall, rubbing his forehead with his fingers to try and alleviate the headache he can sense coming, and the phone is picked up in seconds.

 _“If you’re ringin’ to say goodnight to Jude, he fell asleep about ten minutes ago. Buggar was flat out, I’ve just tucked him in_ ,” Niall says.

“No, No, I’m not ringing for that, I just… I just need someone to talk to.”

He hears the TV pause in the background.

_“What’s up, man? Did something happen?”_

“Yeah. Well, I mean, no, not like that, but, yeah, something’s happened,” he says, and he laughs—as if the situation is actually fucking funny—but he doesn’t know what else to do. “I just went to pick up my rental car and they said I haven’t booked the fucking car. Or, like, it just says there’s no booking under my name.”

_“Well, I was sat next to you when you booked it, so that ain’t right.”_

“I know, that’s the most infuriating part about it,” he cries. “They wouldn’t even reimburse me, ‘cause I don’t have the poxy print-out receipt.”

 _“Well, fuckin’ hell, mate,”_ Niall says, and Zayn nods along, chewing his gum, and the line stays quiet for a thrice. _“What are ya gonna do?”_

“I don’t know.” Zayn sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and looks around. “I don’t know where I’m gonna go, I have no idea where I am, and I have no money to get back—not enough, anyway. I’m fucked, Ni. I’m actually fucked.”

_“Are you panickin’?”_

“A little bit, yeah. I feel like a kid lost in a toy store.”

_“Alright, well, look, I mean, three hundred quid ain’t that much to lose, if you think about it. I mean, I know things are tight at the moment, financially, but you know I can always help out with that, if push comes to shove. And, in the morning, I can transfer some money to your bank. Ya know I don’t like doing it, but I can if you’re desperate.”_

“It’s not three hundred quid, Niall, it’s, like, a grand, _two_ ,” he says.

_“How d’you work that one out?”_

“If I haven’t got the car, I can’t get to the hotel’s I’ve booked all over fucking Europe because by the time I get there, if I get there _at all_ , the night I booked will be gone,” he explains. “And that means I’m gonna miss the train I need to get to St. Petersburg, and I’m not gonna make it in time…” He pauses, sighing, and the back of his eyes sting. “In time for the funeral.”

 _“I’m really fuckin’ sorry about this, man,”_ Niall says. _“I know things are difficult at the moment as is.”_

“It’s not your fault. I just—I planned it out perfectly, and it still all fell to shit.”

He knew this was a bad idea; he knows he should have just listened to that bad feeling he had in the pit of his stomach before he left the house this morning—the one he convinced himself was just his anxiety—because now, he’s stuck in a different country, with no one else, a tingling of anger and fear and tiredness in his bones, and he just wishes he was at home so he could cuddle up with Jude and fall asleep and not have to worry about any of this. He wishes he didn’t have to go to this stupid fucking funeral about a man who he didn’t really ever know.

And if things can’t really get that much worse for him, Zayn looks over his shoulder and sees Harry sat in a black range rover on the side of the street, watching him with this complacency that makes him wonder how much of the conversation he’s heard.

Zayn scowls at him and looks away. “Look, Ni, I’m just gonna try and work things out,” he says quietly.

_“Alright, mate. Just ring me at any time if you need me. I’ll probably be awake, ya know me, night owl.”_

“Yeah, I’ll speak to you later.”

He tucks his phone back in his pocket and picks up his bags and starts walking—he doesn’t really know where he’s going or why, he just knows it’s the opposite direction of Harry, and that seems like the best option.

But he hears the rev of the engine, and the car comes into his peripheral vision as it pulls up beside him. Zayn ignores it, looks the other way, out onto the harbour and the sea line and the dimming sky as night falls. But the car still follows him— _Harry_ still follows him.

Zayn pauses for a second to glare at him before he carries on. “What do you want?”

“I mean, I did want something else, but now I just wanna know why you’re walking to the edge of the dock,” Harry says. “Are you gonna jump off? Calais isn’t the best place to do that, mate. I know of a few lovely hills down in Ullapool. I should say up, actually.”

Zayn looks up and realises Harry’s right—he’s walked onto the small pier without even noticing, being blinded by the need to just be alone. He sighs and turns around, ignoring Harry even as they pass one another.

Harry just starts reversing.

“Why d’you have to be such an asshole?” Zayn asks. “Did you hear my conversation?”

“A little bit of it, enough of it.”

“It’s rude to listen in to other people’s conversations, they’re other peoples for a reason,” Zayn bites. He shifts the falling strap back over his shoulder. “And I’d really appreciate it if you stopped following me.”

“I’m not following you. It’s a one-way street, and I can’t turn the car around, the road is too narrow,” he says.

“Why are you reversing down a one-way street, then?”

“Well, I can’t really get my car off the road any other way, can I?”

“Why do you sound so chirpy?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s sort of funny to see you miserable.”

Zayn humphs, sarcastically smiles. “You love proving my points, don’t you? Complaining about me calling you an asshole _whilst being_ an asshole. Genius—no, really, you seem like a really smart guy.”

“You’re right, that was an asshole move,” Harry agrees, “but, what are you if not the person people claim you to be, sometimes?”

“A better person, perhaps.”

“Alright, well, if you wanna know the truth, I was gonna offer you my help, but if you’re going to be a dickhead about it…”

“I don’t need any help from you, okay?” Zayn waves him off. “Just… fuck off, yeah?”

“Well, I could do that, but then you’d be left alone in a country you don’t know, and you’ll probably be found dead in a river somewhere and the France news will be reporting about it in the morning,” Harry says. “Its your luck that I’ve been to Calais numerous times, for business purposes and holidays. And, well, it looks to me that you need any help you can get off _anyone_ , so I would argue that you need my help, yes.”

“I can get help off someone else. I don’t need you.”

“It’s not about me, it’s about you. So, maybe take your own advice and just put down your pride for a second, so you can at least listen to my offer without any indignation moving your decision,” Harry says.

It would pain him to admit that Harry is right, so he doesn’t. Instead, he stops on the side of his road, lips begrudging as they’re bitten, and turns to Harry, who pulls the breaks on the car and leans out the window, so they can talk.

“I heard your conversation,” Harry says, his tone calmer now, “all of it. I know you don’t have any way to get to whatever shitty hotel you booked for the night.”

“Could you not even try to get through that sentence without insulting me?”“I’m trying,” he defends. “I’m trying to do something nice to the guy who takes fancy in slashing my name, like all the other newspapers do.”

Zayn hums. “And do you try to get all those other journalists fired, too?”

“Yes,” he says, matter-of-factly, and Zayn widens his eyes. “It’s a huge ego thing, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re so self-aware,” Zayn says, sarcastically. “Why are you even trying to do something nice for me?”

Harry shrugs. “To prove you wrong, I told you that. Did I tell you that? I don’t know, it was a few minutes ago, I don’t remember.”

“Crack really does go to your head, huh?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “First of all, it’s cocaine. I’m not stupid enough to do crack. And second of all, I’m clean, alright? I only did one line.”

Zayn laughs. “That’s not what clean means.”

“Yeah, well, it is for me. One line doesn’t do anything. I’ve done too much of it over the years. It’s like taking a sip of water. I’m practically clean.”

“That’s really fucked up.”

“Name a celebrity that isn’t. And if you have a name in mind, you’re wrong and you don’t know the industry as well as you think you do,” Harry tells. “Anyway, look—”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, to your offer.”

“You didn’t even hear it.”

“I’m not going anywhere with someone who’s high on coke.”

“I’m not—I just told you I’m not high, I’m clean. It’s like sipping—”

“Yeah, water, I get it,” Zayn interrupts.

“Look, can I just tell you before you say no?”

“Why are you trying so hard?”

Harry looks up to the sky, cursing under his breath, and looks back to Zayn. “I’m working on some things, and I’m starting with you, okay? That’s it, that’s all you need to know. The rest is none of your business.”

Zayn huffs, picks his hands up and drops them back down at his side, and rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Harry clears his throat and stretches his hands, like he’s making some sort of crucial speech, and Zayn wants to scoff.

“I’ll take you to your hotel, or wherever you want to go, if you write an article about how you were wrong about me, and that you are apologetic about being so… slanderous. As reconciliation.”

Zayn laughs, truly laughs. “You want me to write an article… apologising? Like some kid who’s been told off for saying something naughty?”

“Yes,” Harry says, as if it’s obvious.

“You know, either way, no matter what I do, if I do that, people are going to see me as ingenuine. If I don’t do anything, which is what I plan to do, people will see me as just another bloodthirsty journalist who will do anything to get a good story out—which I don’t care about, I’ve been seen as that for a while, now—and if I _do_ , do something, they’re just gonna think I’m being coerced into saying something I don’t want to because I was chastised.”

“To be honest, I don’t care what people think, I just want my name cleared.”

“If you don’t care what people think, then why do you want me to retract my article so much?” Zayn retaliates.

“I don’t care what people have to say about me, but when they’re making false accusations, I have an issue.” Harry leans further out of the car. “And I meant, I don’t care what people think about _you_.”

“How is this a good deal for me?” Zayn asks. “You’re asking me to destroy my credibility as a journalist at The Guardian.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do, but if that’s what will happen.” He shrugs. “Actions come with consequences.”

“Harry, you’re not proving anything to me other than the fact you can’t do anything if there isn’t some sort of selfish and ulterior motive,” he says. “You’re not doing something kind for me, you’re getting pay back in the moment you know I’m most vulnerable.”  

“You told everyone I keep a track of my ‘ _conquests’_ in a fucking page in my diary,” Harry says defensively, voice raised. “And I know exactly where that’s sourced from because you’re not original enough. I know you went straight to The Sun. That bastard Gallagher has always disliked me.”

“Is it true?”

“Of course it’s _fucking_ not.”

“And how can I believe that?”

“You can’t, because you don’t know me, so you don’t trust me,” Harry repeats. “Maybe if you actually got to know me before you wrote an article about me, there’d be no bad blood.”

“Well, it’s not like you give people great first impressions of you, and I knew you weren’t going to cooperate with me professionally, like you should. I’ve heard too much about interviewers and journalists who come out of meetings with you annoyed, harassed, without resources or any writing material, or vomited on.”

“That was one time.” He points his finger up. “ _One time_. I had way too much to drink, and no one would give me some paracetamol.”

“It was eight in the morning.”

“And I’d been drinking all night—look, why are we even talking about that? I’m offering you a solution to your problems here, so can we get back to that? Are you gonna take the offer, or not?”

Zayn stares at him, his arms defiantly crossed against his chest, and the cogs are turning in his mind. There’s a frustration pulsing in his head and the ends of his fingers, and he’s struggling to see through the dislike and the bias Harry has instilled within him, but he can see it. If there’s one thing proven to Zayn in their brief encounters is that Harry is a stubborn man and gets what he wants, and Zayn knows he isn’t going to disappear without winning the allusion of something.

Harry gestures his hands impatiently, looking disgruntled and hot as he sits in the car, waiting.

“Okay,” Zayn says.

Harry perks his brows. “Okay?”

“You give me a lift to my hotel, and I’ll _consider_ writing a reconciliation article.”

Harry’s face falls, and the glimmer of satisfaction he felt when he’d thought he won, vanishes. “That’s not what I said.”

“No. It’s what I’m saying.”

“You’re pushing it, mate.”

“I could push it,” Zayn says. “In fact, I could push out the same units of newspaper, the one with that nice little love-letter about you, again, and just plaster on a new title. And everyone will have a second chance to read it, maybe the ones who didn’t have a chance to before, who maybe missed it. We could give them another chance. I could do that when I get back.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that.”

No, Harry’s right, he doesn’t. But Zayn has always been good at bluffing—and he blames it on his older cousin’s teaching him how to play poker at such a young age, on being able to tell the board from the way people shift their fingers and hold their cards. Harry’s like that—a delicate and valuable card that’s easily to manipulate if you raise it the right way; most celebrities are stuck in a corner like that.

“You wanna risk it?”

Zayn sees the knot in Harry’s brow, his tongue as it shifts from cheek to cheek, his mind as his teeth grind and the veins in his forehead grow blue just below the surface. He rubs his eyes and his forehead, groaning to himself. His face grows pained as he says, “Yes, okay, just… just get in the fucking car, alright? It’s hot and I want to get a breeze through the car.”

“Aren’t you going to help me with my bags?”

“If I get out the car, I’ll throw them in the sea.”

“You should work on being kinder to people,” Zayn says, as he hauls his bags to the back of the car. Harry pops the boot, and Zayn slides his belongings in before making his way to the front seat. “You have such a kind and yet brooding face. The personality doesn’t really suit you.”

“I know that most of you journalists don’t understand this, but there is a difference between a personality and an aura.”

“Yeah, and you don’t have one.” Harry opens his mouth, but Zayn beats him to it. “Yeah, yeah, I don’t know you, all that shit.”

“Really charming.”

“It’s your job to be charming,” Zayn says, “not mine.”

“Have you put your seatbelt on?”

“Yes, I have, Harry.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“I’m just checking, no need for the attitude.”

“Like you care about my safety.”

“Jesus, fucking—you’re still a person, Zayn, alright? I don’t want you dead,” Harry says, before adding in a calmer voice. “Besides, you have a kid. And I bet he’s missing you. Wouldn’t want him to be without his dad.”

Zayn glimpses the first sign of normality in Harry Styles that he’s witnessed as he looks over, and, in a way, he thinks it’s a shame that he’s the one to witness it—and not someone else more worthy or harbouring less dislike for the man, so they could make more of the moment; maybe write a decent article about the guy that isn’t trying to pry open his asshole to dirty its knees.

“Plus, if you die, that’s just a dead body in my car, and I’d have to throw the whole thing out,” he adds, just to rebalance the amount of dickishness between them.

“I thought you didn’t think my son was real. _Just a ruse_ , I think you said.”

“Yeah, well… still not sure about that one.”

“You know fully well my son is a real person, Harry.”

“Well, you have a history of falsifying things to make yourself look better.”

Zayn looks up to the roof of the car and huffs. He pulls his phone out, instead of retaliating like he knows Harry wants him to, the only conversation after that being the name of the hotel that Harry adds into his GPS. About half an hour goes by before he realises the mistake.

“I should ring the hotel and see if the booking is still okay before we get there. Otherwise, you’re just driving there for no reason.”

“We’re literally, like, four minutes away. You could have thought about that one a bit earlier,” Harry says. “Why wouldn’t it be booked, anyway?”

“Well, I booked a fucking car and the trace of the payment disappeared out of nowhere, so anything could happen at this point,” Zayn says.

The phone rings and ends in a matter of a minute, and Zayn throws his phone onto the dashboard in annoyance.

“That might have cracked.”

“I don’t really care.” Zayn runs his hand through his hair with a deep sigh. “They don’t have me on record.”

“Are you sure you even booked it?”

“Yes, Harry, I am,” he snaps. “I booked all of this weeks in advance, and I checked it up multiple times just to make sure.” He hits the roof of the car with his fist. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Hey! Just because you’re mad, don’t hit my car.”

“I’m sure your car is fine, stop being a pussy.”

“I’m not being a pussy, it’s just not yours. Don’t disrespect other people’s things,” Harry defends.

Zayn sighs, _again_ , because it seems to be the only thing he can do in this situation, because everything is going to shit for him. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, so you _can_ admit when you’re wrong,” he goads.

“I’m not arguing with you, right now,” Zayn says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the rest. “I’ve had enough stress for one day. I just wanna… just wanna go home and be with my son.”

It’s quiet for a thrice. Harry flicks on the indicator and turns, and the beeping sound keeps the silence at bay whilst the air remains barren of words.

“Why don’t you?” Harry asks.

“I have somewhere I need to be, and somehow I need to get there. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

“A funeral, right?” Harry asks, and Zayn remains silent. “I… I, uh, overheard the conversation, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s a funeral.”

“Who’s funeral?”

“That’s not any of your business,” Zayn says, yawning.

“Well, if you aren’t going to the hotel, then where are you going?”

“We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, about a minute out.”

“Just drop me off there, you’ve already come this way,” Zayn says.

“But, you’re not staying there.”

“Yeah, but you’re not—you agreed to take me to my hotel.”

“Technically, I said I’d take you wherever you want to go. And, whilst I don’t like you, I’m not just gonna leave you here on your own when you don’t know where to go.”

Zayn breaths out a laugh. “Found some humility, have you?” he says, light-heartedly.

Harry smiles this lackadaisical smile. “I’ve always had it.”

“Well, it’s making it’s first appearance.”

“Impressed?”

“Minorly.”

“So, where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know anywhere to go,” Zayn says, chuckling to himself. “Unless you want to take me to Russia.”

Harry looks over to him with a frown before his eyes focus back on the road. “You’re going to Russia?”

“Yeah.” Zayn looks over to him. “Why?”

Harry makes this noise with his lips—like a tut and a groan and a whine that he suspires with a huff— and Zayn follows the noise, trailing back up to the recherche look in Harry’s eyes as he catches himself with a swallow.

“So am I.”

 

\+ + + +

 

“ _So, alright—hold on, alright, you’re road-tripping with Harry Styles across Europe?”_

“Yes.”

_“I thought you hated the guy.”_

“Hate is a strong word.” Zayn sighs. “Trust me, I’m not really as happy about this as you’d think.”

“I’d think you weren’t happy at all.”

“No, I’m fucking miserable about it,” he moans. “But what other options have I got?”

 _“You could just come back home. Just come back home, spend a few days with me and Jude, and I’ll book you a flight to Russia. You can go and come back the same day if you want,”_ Niall offers.

“You know I can’t do that.”

_“You can, mate.”_

“I can’t. Ni, if I could, that’s what I would have done, instead of going through all the hassle of travelling on road through Europe and wasting all that money on jack shit,” Zayn says. “You know I can’t fly.”

_“They’re not as scary as you think they are, planes, ya know? Once you’re in the air, it’s like you’re on the ground. Which sounds fucked up now that I say it.”_

“I wouldn’t be able to handle it, mentally. Once on a plane was enough for me.”

_“What are ya gonna do when Jude gets older and he wants to travel?”_

“By the time I let him go to a different country, he’ll be old enough to do it on his own.”

_“But don’t you want to see the world? It’s all out there, mate, sat there waitin’ for ya moody arse.”_

Zayn chuckles. “Nah, I’m content with my life. My little idyllic life in London with Jude and my best friend and my family nearby,” he says, eyes drifting off through the window into the sky. “Who knows, maybe I’ll have another one.”

The line goes silent.

“Ni? You there?”

_“I think the stress is gettin’ to your head, lad.”_

“Yeah,” Zayn says, running a hand over his eyes, “you’re probably right. I’m tired, aswell, and this seat isn’t very comfy.”

_“What seat?”_

“The backseat… of Harry’s car. He’s got a range rover, so it’s not snug at all.”

_“Wait, you’re sleeping in the back of his car?”_

“Yeah.”

_“And where’s he?”_

“In the hotel.” Zayn tilts his head back and looks at the stark lights of the hotel as they shine from the car park. “Looks fancy, an’ all.”

_“The bastard’s rich, why couldn’t he have booked you a room?”_

“To be honest, I’m just glad that I’m sleeping in here instead of the streets,” Zayn says. “Plus, the guy supposedly dislikes me and, despite what I wrote about him, he’s helping me—even if it is begrudgingly. He’s trying to prove a point, I think. I’m just letting him get on with it.”

_“So, he just left you in the car?”_

“Yeah. Threw a blanket at me from the boot and went off. There’s a krispy crème over the road, so I got some doughnuts and a coffee. I’m all set,” he says. “I bet the hotel do a good breakfast. D’you think Harry would bring me summat out if I asked him, or is that a stretch?”

_“I wouldn’t hold your breath, mate.”_

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Zayn yawns and pulls his phone away from his ear to check the time. “Listen, mate, I’m gonna go. It’s, like, midnight here and I’ve had a long day.”

_“Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”_

“Yeah, night.”

Zayn tosses and turns for hours, the car going cold in the early hours of the shadowy morning, and the hard seat isn’t doing him any favours. He ends up taking his thickest coat from his bag in the boot and laying it underneath him to even out the ridges in the seat, and he falls asleep not long after, thinking about how Niall was right—the bastard could have booked him a room.

When he wakes up, the back of his neck is in a sweat and the light is blinding as it soaks in through the windows. Harry slams the car door shut as he gets in, and he throws a bag at Zayn.

“Doggy bag,” he says.

“Fucking hell,” Zayn croaks and pulls it off him. “What the fuck is in it?”

“Food, Zayn, what do you think is in it?”

Zayn ruffles through the bag. “A tub? You threw a tub full of food at my head?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to hit your head, did I? Good aim, though.”

“God,” he groans, and looks over to the small digital clock on the dashboard. “It’s, fuck, it’s eight in the morning and you’re already starting.”

“Just eat your food and jump in the front,” Harry says. “We’ve gotta get to Brussels at noon by the latest.”

Zayn downs the rest of his cold coffee and pulls himself into the front. “You got it all planned out?”

“Yes, in my journal, and I want to stick to the schedule. It takes two to three hours to get to Brussels from here, so we have to get on the road now.”

“Well, I ain’t stopping you.”

“There’s a fork in the bag.”

Zayn reaches into the back and grabs the fork from the bag, and his belly rumbles as he peels open the lid of the tub and the steam rolls out. He digs in whilst Harry starts the car and heads back onto the road.

“How did you sleep?” Harry asks.

Zayn quirks his brow. “Are we making small talk now?” he mumbles through a mouth of food.

“No, I’m just asking you how your night was. I know the back of the car isn’t the most comfortable.”

“No, it fucking isn’t. Gave me back ache.”

“I did see if they had any spare rooms, but there wasn’t any on such short notice,” Harry says.

“S’fine.”

He points down to the drinks holder between the seats. “One of those is for you. I just got black coffee, but there’s some milk pods and some sugar sachets, and that, in the glove box.”

“Why are they in the glove box?”

“I just stuffed them in there, I didn’t know where else to put them.”

“Alright, alright. Cheers.” Zayn glances over to Harry, whose eyes are on the road, but he’s glancing over at Zayn, too, and asking what he’s looking at. “You seem in a good mood.”

“I’m a morning person. As the day goes on, you get more dragged down, more emotionally drained, you know,” he says. “And I, uhm… well, I haven’t, you know.”

“Right. You’re _actually_ clean.”

“Yeah, but if you keep eating that loudly I’ll have to take something,” he moans. “Why haven’t you eaten the sausages?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh.”

“D’you want them?”

“No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve eaten.”

Zayn narrows his eyes as Harry’s belly rumbles. “Right.”

“I just haven’t got much of an appetite, is all,” he says, “with the whole, you know, withdrawal thing. It’s not, like, it’s not a huge withdrawal, I already went through that shit show. I’m just not used to being cut dry. 

“Right.” Zayn shoves the tub back in the bag once he’s done and pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You want one? You’re allowed this, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“You want me to light it for you?”

“Don’t really want something that’s been in your mouth. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet.”

“It’s not gonna do anything.”

“I don’t care, it’s disgusting. Just hold the flame out and I’ll light it myself.”  

“I’m supposed to be the one with OCD,” Zayn mumbles to himself.

He pulls two cigarettes out and disperses them between them, lighting his own and holding the lighter out so Harry can ignite his.

“Cheers.”

Zayn rolls down the window. “S’alright. Just don’t make any half-arsed comments to me yet. You may be a morning person but I’m not.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“Where are we going first?”

“Dunkirk, then to Bruges, and then to Brussels. It’s the shortest route,” Harry says.

“That’s gonna take more than three hours, mate.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s—I calculated it.” Harry reaches over and pulls a journal from the glovebox, handing it to Zayn. “It’s in there.”

“You could’ve just asked me to grab it, that’s a safety hazard.”

“Just open the book. It’s the pages with all the colours.

Zayn flicks through the pages, past doodles and little thoughts he knows he should ignore and so he does, until he finds a list of places and times in order, all written in different coloured ink and organised. He looks all the way down the list and back up—he’s definitely not going to try and pronounce half of these.

“This is actually really concerning,” Zayn mutters. “You’re a bit of a control freak, aren’t you? You got it all colour coordinated by length of travel and everything.”

“I’m not a control freak. It’s just easier when you glance at it, so you can see what’s what quicker without having to pay too much attention. So I can read it when I’m driving.”

“You shouldn’t be reading _anything_ when you’re driving, it’s not a very sensible thing to do,” Zayn says, adding under his breath, “although, you do act like a child.”

“Shut up.”

Zayn looks to him, holding back a smile. “Is that it? Is that your comeback? ‘ _Shut up_ ’, how insulting.”

“Do you want me to focus on the road or not? Or do you want to continue to wind me up?” Harry snaps. “We’re going to be there by noon, that’s the end of it, alright?”

“Well, you’ll have a job doing that, I’m just saying.” Zayn holds his hands up. “We’re not gonna be there by noon.”

“Oh, right, ‘cause you know that for certain, don’t you?”

Zayn looks back down to the journal, pointing at the names. “It’s just under an hour to Dunkirk.” 

“Yeah.”

“And about the same to Bruges.”

Harry hums.

“And it’s an hour and ten minutes to Brussels, according to you.”

“According to Google.”

“Oh, ‘cause that’s so reliable.” Zayn looks to him like he’s an idiot. “Do you know the type of shit that’s on the internet?”

“Yeah, your article is on there,” Harry remarks, and when Zayn’s face drops, he smirks. “You set yourself up for that one. First search page, link two.”

“I’m not even going to go into how pathetic it is that you know that,” Zayn says and sighs. “Back to the point.”

“Where you’re wrong.”

“ _Back to the point_ ,” he repeats, his tone clipped. “It’s about three hours to Brussels.” Zayn looks to the clock. “It’s 8:30.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of the time, Zayn. And, if you weren’t aware, three hours from now is 11:30, so we’ll be there by noon at the latest.”

“You know, I get that being a celebrity is amazing and you see the world and you learn new things, but there are things that being a celebrity doesn’t teach you—you’re shocked, I know, don’t worry,” he sarcastically says, and Harry holds his finger up. “But there are special things you learn about when you’re a single nine-to-five working dad with a commute over the city every morning.” As Zayn talks, the car slows down. “It’s called morning rush-hour.”

“Fuck,” Harry says as he looks down the long line of traffic in front of them.

“And, by my very experienced estimate, we could be stuck here for a good hour, at least.”

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , fuck _sake_.” Harry bangs the steering wheel. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re a huge dickhead.”

“Shut up, it was a rhetorical question.” Harry scowls, fiddles with his hair, and slumps back in his seat. “So, if you are right, _if_ … then, what time do you think we’ll get there, to Brussels?”

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. I mean, it’s Calais, it’s a popular travel destination, so I’m assuming a lot of people are exiting here this time in the morning. 9:30? Maybe. And we’re not even talking about a city, you can usually add a good hour and a half, two hours, onto that.”

Harry curses under his breath. “And there’s no way around?”

“I don’t know how you expect me to have the answer to that when I’ve never been here before in my life.”

“Well, you seem to know everything else.” He gestures his hands dramatically. “So, we’re just stuck in traffic?”

“Yes, Harry, unless you can make the car levitate.”

“This wouldn’t be fucking happening if I hadn’t agreed to bring you along,” he says. “It’s your fault.”

“It’s my—how is it my fault, Harry?” Zayn asks, huffing. “Are you fucking stupid?”

“What?”

“We’re both going to the same place. If I wasn’t with you, you’d still be on this fucking road because you’re in Calais, going to Dunkirk, you absolute idiot. So much for your fucking act of kindness.”

“I only did it to make myself feel better, it wasn’t for you. Don’t think that I just randomly realised how great of a person you actually are,” Harry bites. “Like I would willingly let someone like you into my car.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who mercilessly scrapes their way through life adding their two coins onto things that no one really gives a fuck about. Can you do anything else other than write about other people? Like, do you have any other talent? Because it’s pathetic, it is. Bringing others down to make you feel taller.”

“You do that every-fucking-day, you absolute classist dick.”

“Is that supposed to be insulting?”

“No. Just adding on my two coins that no one gives a fuck about,” he grumbles.

“Good. Then, just shut up.” Harry rummages around in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small bag of white powder. He grabs a CD from the side compartment and tips the substance onto it. “I need utter silence.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Zayn shouts.

“ _I need utter silence_ ,” he repeats, aggravated.

“Harry, you’re driving. You can’t be out of your head. Maybe if you were the only one in the car.”

“And that’s why I’m fucking taking, isn’t it? Because we’re in a line of traffic, and I’m stuck in the car with you,” he fires back. “It’ll take me a couple of seconds. Just close your eyes if you’re so opposed to it.”

“Don’t think disdain works that way, mate, but nice try.”

Harry takes the credit card from his wallet and lines it up, and Zayn looks the other way as he leans his head down.

“I only did two lines, just to make you feel better about yourself,” Harry says. “Happy, now?”

“No, I’m not. This is really dangerous, Harry.”

“Please. D’you know how many times I’ve drove high, drunk? In fact, I’d struggle to count the amount of times I’ve driven sober in the last few years.”

“What if we get pulled over and you’ve got that shit in your back pocket, under your nose, you sniffling twat? We’re in a different country. They could persecute us.”

“You don’t know France like I do,” Harry says. “The coppers’ll line up to do this shit with you.”

“That’s not the point I’m making, Harry,” Zayn chastises.

“Then, what is the point?”

“The point is, I’m not comfortable with you doing that shit when I’m in the car,” he says, exasperated. “Do whatever the fuck you want in your own time, but don’t drag me into it. You could crash the car and get us killed.”

“Look,” Harry begins, turning in his seat to face Zayn, “you’re in my car, and I am your only way to Russia. If you have an issue with that, I won’t stop you from getting out the car now, but it’ll be your fault that you don’t get to Russia, not mine. So, either suck up what I do _in my car_ , or walk back home. Your choice.”

Zayn sees the darkness of Harry’s dilating pupils, and he decides it’s not worth it. He sighs and turns away from him, stares out at the window even though the view is only the blank brick wall of a building and the ongoing traffic in front of them: it’s better than looking at Harry right now.

“Just don’t tip the car over or some stupid shit you’d do.” 

“I’ve done this with my eyes closed, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, don’t do that, either, for fuck sake.”

Zayn’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he smiles, assuaged, when he sees Niall’s ID flash on the screen.

“Hello?”

_“Alright, mate. How are ya?”_

“I’m… alright.” He sighs. “What’s up?”

_Jude wants to speak to ya before he heads off for school.”_

“Alright, put him on.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear as the phone is dropped and the mic rustles.

“ _Hello?”_ Jude says down the line. _“Hello?”_

“Is that a certain ticklish, little monster, or is it just my baby?” Zayn teases.

He sees Harry look to him from the corner of his eye, but Zayn ignores him.

“ _Hi, Baba!”_ Jude says, excitedly. “ _I—I already had breakfast, Baba. But I spilt toothpaste down my school shirt, so we had to change it and now we’re gonna be late_.”

“I thought we didn’t put our uniform on before we brush our teeth,” Zayn reminds, “because you’re so clumsy.”

_“Uncle Niall forgot.”_

“And what about you?”

_“I forgot, too, Baba. I just do what I’m told.”_

Zayn hums. “Most of the time.”

_“Where are you, Baba?”_

“I’m in France, baby.”

_“But I thought you were going to the cold place?”_

“I am going to _the cold place_ ,” Zayn says. “But I have to go through France and some other places first. Because Baba doesn’t like the big aeroplanes, so I have to go the long way.”

_“They are big, Baba. And they go really tall!”_

“They do.” Zayn checks the time on the dashboard. “I’m gonna let you go now, baby, because you’re already gonna be five minutes late for school, okay?”

_“I could always have the day off.”_

“No, you’re not having the day off. You’ve got important things to learn,” he says, adding, “And don’t tell Uncle Niall that I said you could, you little monkey.”

Jude hums and goes quiet for a second. _“Okay, Baba.”_

“You’re behaving for Uncle Niall, yeah?”

 _“No, he’s a bloody pain in my arse!”_ he hears Niall call from the back.

_“Yes, Baba, I’m being good, trust me.”_

“Okay, I trust you.” He chuckles. “And you’re gonna behave for nanny, yeah?”

 _“Yes, Baba,”_ he playfully groans.

“Alright, I’ll let you go now, then. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

_“Not tonight?”_

“No, baby. Baba’s busy, and he doesn’t want to promise you when he might forget.”

_“Okay.”_

“Okay. I love you, meri jaan.”

_“I love you, too, Baba. Be careful, okay? You’re the only daddy I have.”_

Zayn’s chest fills with a love that pulls the air from his throat, and this longing to be at home glosses his eyes as he suppresses it; the homesickness, the fear.

“I know, baby. I’ll be home soon. I love you.”

The phone cuts out before he hears a response, and he knows Niall probably wanted to speak to him, but Jude pressed random buttons on the screen again, like he usually does in curiosity.

Zayn closes his throat and puts his phone back into his pocket. A silence dissolves in the car between them, Harry turning the radio off when the surrounding buildings turn it into nothing but static reminiscence of songs.

“You, uhm…” Harry coughs. “Your kid sounds lovely.”

Zayn looks over to him. “You believe he’s real, then?”

Harry scoffs. “I always knew he was real. I was just trying to wind you up.”

“Petty pathetic way to try and wind me up, bringing my family into it,” Zayn mutters, and Harry doesn’t protest. “How did you hear, anyway?”

“You keep the volume on your phone pretty loud. I could hear the conversation.”

“Oh.”

“He sounds like a good kid, like you raised him well,” Harry says, voice strained.

“God, you didn’t have to sound so pained saying that.”

“I’m trying to be nice. Take it as an honour when there’s cocaine rattling around in my system,” Harry says. He looks out over the expanse of traffic, down to his hands across the steering wheel, shaking his head. “How old were you when you had, uhm…”

“Jude.”

“How old were you when you had Jude?”

“Uhm,” Zayn starts, pausing to think, and he doesn’t really know why he’s so open to sharing—probably because his son has softened up his heart—but it’s refreshing to have some sort of light between them instead of backhanded insults, even though he knows the arguing is only temporarily bemused. “Well, I was twenty-two when I got Jude, but twenty-one if you’re talking about when we conceived.”

“And is the Mum a good parent, like you seem to be?”

Zayn half-smiles. “I think that’s the first time you’ve complimented me.”

“Take it or leave it, don’t rub it in my face.” Harry taps a beat on the steering wheel. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Zayn looks away, swallowing. “That’s… that’s a difficult one. And it’s not, really, any of your business.”

“I was just asking. Touchy topic?”

“What do you think, Harry?”

“Alright, I was just asking,” he defends. Harry takes the clutch off and moves the car forward every time the line of traffic minutely shortens. “I couldn’t imagine having a kid. Not now, not at my age, not with my lifestyle.”

“No one can imagine having a kid until you have one. It’s something you have to adjust to quick, sometimes you don’t even know what you’re doing until you’ve done it,” Zayn says. “But kids… they bring a bit of light into a dull day. Any loving parent wouldn’t ever give that up.”

“And would you?” Harry asks.  “Give it up?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Never,” he says without hesitation. “Seeing my son, listening to him, talking to him, is the highlight of my day. Being away from him doesn’t feel right.”

Harry stays quiet—Zayn thinks it’s because he doesn’t know what to say—but it’s probably best that way. And if he has any lingering insult or jab on his tongue, Harry lets it dissolve instead of becoming a shard of indignation between them.

“We’ll be in Dunkirk soon,” Harry says.

“Okay.”

“You mind putting some more sugar in my coffee?” he asks. “Coke takes the flavour out of things, makes things not taste as sweet.”

“How interesting.”

“It is, actually. I don’t know how it works, suppose I don’t really care if it works.”

Zayn empties a sachet into the cup and hands it back to him, and they dwell back into a silence. He closes his eyes at one point and drifts off, thinks of Jude and falls asleep with a smile on his mouth, love on his tongue, and he’s glad to escape the reality of the situation he’s found in Harry’s car for a few minutes. Harry wakes him up when they’re close to Brussels, and he chuckles to himself when he glances over to the clock with sleepy eyes and sees that it’s nearly one in the afternoon.

“I got lunch about an hour ago,” Harry says. “I was starving, so I stopped at a little café in the central city. You were flat out and I didn’t want to wake you, but I got you a panini. It’ll be cold now, though.”

“Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I did, otherwise you’d starve.”

“Surprised you even want to,” Zayn mumbles in a croaky voice, as he unwraps the panini and bites into it. “This is vegetarian, right?”

“No, I got the one with the most meat on it—yes, of course it’s vegetarian.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to be like that, I just didn’t know if you remembered.”

“You only told me a few hours ago.”

“Well, when you don’t care about someone you don’t typically remember interesting stuff about them.”

“You seemed to remember a lot about me,” Harry mutters to himself and looks out the window in an inconspicuous way that has Zayn narrowing his eyes.

“First, that’s called research—the thing you do right before you start writing so the information is fresh. And second, can you, like, not start right now? I’ve just woke up and I’m eating. In fact, just don’t start, ever, and just act like more of an adult, please.”

“Fine,” Harry petulantly says. “And, FYI, like I said, you’re an actual person, so… eating is mandatory, and considering you’re with me, I feel obligated to look after you somewhat… as a person.”

“If you’re so considerate about me being a person, why are you so adamant on making me feel like shit?” Zayn asks, mumbles through his mouth of food, licking the sauce of his fingers as it drips.

Harry looks to him. “I’m making you feel like shit?”

“No, not really,” he lies. “But you push it.”

“How?”

“Uhm, how about when you implied my son isn’t real, or when you tried to get me fired because of some bullshit article you couldn’t wrap your head around.”

“I’m glad we can agree that it was bullshit,” Harry says, and Zayn looks up to the roof for strength, because that _really wasn’t the point he was making_. “I suppose, we’re even now. Sort of.”

Zayn looks to him, still chewing. “Even?”

“Yeah. You made me feel like shit when I read your article, and I made you feel like shit,” he explains.

“And what was the point of that?”

“Figure that one out for yourself.”

Zayn huffs. “So, are you going to be decent to me, now? Or are you still going to be a raging dick?”

“Well, one of those sounds more fun than the other,” he goads, but his smile falls when he turns to Zayn. “Yes, alright, I’ll try to be more decent to you. It’s going to be difficult but put yourself in my shoes. Would it be easy for you to be nice to a guy who said all of these horrendous things about you, just because he can?”

“I would be decent, yes, because I understand that, despite what I think and how I feel, people are entitled to their own opinions, Harry, and if that person wants to be an asshole, really, they have the right to do that,” Zayn says. “That’s why I’m not holding what you say against you, even though, you’re right, it is hard.”

Zayn rolls the window down and lets the small breeze gyrate between them, a silence following. He looks out at the view, the passing trees and hills that transform into tall statues and glass windows and rammed city streets.

Harry sniffs. “I know that you don’t believe this, because it’s difficult to see good in someone you hate, especially when you’re told the worst by the world all the time—”

“I don’t hate you, Harry,” Zayn protests.

“But, I am a somewhat good person, despite what you think, what you’ve read.”

“What I’ve seen, with my own two eyes?”

Harry sighs. “I’ve been working on it, okay? Getting clean… it’s the start of that. It’s easy to get wrapped up in things when you live the life I do.”

“You did two lines a few hours ago.”

He swallows his lips. “It was actually four. I just lied to make you feel better.”

“For fuck sa—that’s not what clean means, I’ve told you that.”

“I know what clean means,” Harry bites. “But it’s difficult, it’s really fucking difficult. And I’m trying. And you decided to write something about me at such a sensitive time, and I’m going through this constant… this tiredness, always, and right now I don’t really feel the worst for taking it out on you because you didn’t seem to feel guilty about doing the same to me.”

Although Zayn wants to reply, to bite back and retaliate and tell Harry he doesn’t really care about his sob story, he grips the end of his tongue with his teeth and stays silent, because he looks over to Harry, sees the low in his eyes as it shines in the sunlight, and senses the dim of a defence shatter in the space between them. He relaxes more into his seat as he watches Harry, who is so tense and hunched over and focusing on the steering wheel more than Zayn knows is interesting.

“I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong, Harry,” Zayn says, and Harry looks to him. “Most of the time. But you haven’t really given me the best to go on. The shitty attitude and the cocaine…” Zayn shakes his head. “What am I supposed to think, when you’re proving the things I thought I already knew?”

“I was trying to do a nice thing by taking you to Russia.”

“Which you’ve admitted was only for your own benefit.”

“No, I was” – Harry huffs – “I just said that because I was annoyed. I still am.”

“Look, we both know the only reason I’m in this car is ‘cause you want me to retract what I said. And I don’t really have an issue with that because there’s this thing called being open to compromise, but, like I said.” He gestures his hands.

“Go on.”

“Well, you’ve not shown me much except you being the best canonically unimpressive, nagging twat you can be. So, maybe try and convince me otherwise if you want me to think differently, that’s how shit like that usually works.”

Harry remains silent for a moment, frowning. “Did—did you just call me a cunt?”

Zayn shrugs. “You have to improvise when you’re around children.”

“That was impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, from now on, I’ll insult you in my head before I insult you with my mouth, and if it still feels fresh or like a good idea, I’ll say it to you. How’s that for compromise?” Harry asks.

Zayn hums. “What do you want in return?”

“What?”

“That’s how a compromise works, Harry,” he says, as if Harry is dumb. “You sacrifice something, I sacrifice something.”

“I just want you to take back the article,” Harry says, his tone simple and quiet, like he’s already tired. “What you said… it wasn’t true—most of it.” He gives Zayn the side eye. “I know you don’t believe that. But, when there’s so many people that think they know you when they don’t… It’s easy to slip into the things people say, easier to prove someone right than it is wrong.”

Zayn’s fingers play with a piece of torn-away fabric on the rip of his jeans. “I know. I mean, I don’t know ‘cause I’m not a celebrity, but… At the end of the day I have a job to do, a job that sometimes makes me do things I wouldn’t normally do. I have a kid in a difficult world, and sometimes that means I have to put myself on top without thinking of others, just so I can make sure I put a meal on the table for Jude.”

“Jude,” Harry says, looking over to Zayn. “Is that your son’s name?”

“Yeah. Short for Judas.”

Harry smirks.  “Like the Lady Gaga song?”

Zayn looks over, trying to hide his smile. “Are you a fan?”

“Everyone is a Lady Gaga fan.”

“Jude loves her, too. He actually makes me a little tired of her,” Zayn jokes, and it feels weird to do it, because it’s one of those moments where everything feels normal, where everything feels right in it’s place despite everything having gone wrong, like they’re friends or something completely ridiculous. 

Harry awkwardly laughs. “I’ve met her a few times. She’s, uhm, she’s lovely, very talented. And very strong, you know, as a person. She definitely knows what she wants.”

“I’d love to see her live,” Zayn says, almost lamenting. “She came to London a few years ago but I couldn’t go, ‘cause of Jude, you know.”

“Well, she’s amazing live. The production is just… well, it’s great to look at, is what I’m saying. Very colourful and bright and… Gaga, I guess.”

“Don’t rub it in or anything.”

“I wasn’t rubbing it in,” Harry says quickly; defensive.

“I know, Harry, I was joking.”

“Oh.”

An ambulance siren somewhere in the distance keeps the silence out of the car.

“I actually think I have one of her albums in the glovebox, if you want to put her on,” Harry offers.

“That’s uncharacteristically kind of you.”

“It’s me, no character about it,” he says. “Not that you would know that.”

“Thought you were gonna say things in your mind before you said them out loud,” Zayn points out.

“I did. Didn’t you hear the pause?”

“And you still deemed it necessary?”

“To remind you that the only things you know about me are the things you’ve read from blood-sucking news companies? Yes.” Harry taps on the steering wheel. “Do you want Lady Gaga on or not?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and looks out the window. “I prefer the silence, especially when I’m stressed.”

“What are you stressed about?”

“Everything,” he quickly pushes off. “Where are we now? Are we in Brussels yet?”

“Yeah, we’re in the city. When we get to the top of this hill, you should be able to see the Atomium.”

“The what?”

“The Atomium,” Harry repeats. “It’s a huge steel frame designed like an Atom. There’s a museum, too.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Once. It’s not all that. The Cinquantenaire is better, they have art museums and that. It’s more my thing.”

“I didn’t take you for the type who likes art,” Zayn says.

“Oh, yeah? And what type of guy did you think I was—a coke-sniffing, hard-partying, don’t-know-what-the-fuck-sobriety-is, pig?”

Zayn shrugs with a nod. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well…” Harry looks like he goes to object, to throw an insult out into the air or say something half-witty, but then he pauses. “Well, if you’d _known_ me a few months ago, maybe you’d be right.”

“And I’m not right, now?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, not completely.”

“It’s hard to think that much has changed,” Zayn says.

“Well, a few months ago the papers were more accurate than they are now, let’s just put it that way,” Harry says. “A lot has changed.”

“Like what?”

He shakes his head, and softly says, “It’s none of your business.”

And Zayn leaves it at that, because he feels the quietness in Harry’s voice to be something more, something inexplicable that he knows he’d be wrong about if he tried to guess, and he lets the silence consume.

“We’ve missed the train,” Harry says after a while, checking his watch even though the clock on the dashboard shines bright.

“What train?”

“The train to Luxembourg.” He pierces his lips and shakes his head. “This is why I wanted to stay on schedule.”

“It isn’t my fault we aren’t on schedule,” Zayn defends.

“I didn’t say it was, did I?” he retaliates. “The last train is in an hour, but it’s still about an hour and a half to the train station, probably more with traffic. We’ll have to stop in a hotel or something for the night.”

Zayn takes the small map from the side door compartment and folds it out. He reads it for a minute, and when he pin-points where they are, his expression contorts in confusion. “Uhm, where are we going after Luxembourg?”

“Cologne, I think.” Harry glances over to him and back to the road. “Why?”

“Well, it says here that Cologne is closer to Brussels than Lux is, so I’m just wondering why we’re going all the way down there when we could just go straight across.”

Harry frowns. “Let’s have a look.”

Zayn folds the map in half so he can slide it in front of Harry, pointing at where he needs to look, and Harry does the little glances he can so he doesn’t swerve off the road.

“I, uh… I don’t actually have an answer. I don’t know why we’re going that way.”

“So, d’you wanna just keep driving? We can head straight over to Cologne instead of going this way.”

“No,” Harry says. “I’m gonna do it the way I planned. The way my manager planned.”

“Hold on… You got your manager to plan this for you?”

“No, he didn’t ask me. He just did it himself, so I wouldn’t get lost or something, I don’t know. He just wants me to straighten up my act, so I do what I’m told. And what I’m told is that we have to go to Luxembourg and then to Cologne, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

“But you’re making a three hour journey a six-seven hour one by doing it this way,” Zayn says. “We could be in Cologne by tonight if we did it that way.”

“But I’ve been told to do it a certain way, and I’m doing it that way.”

“Yeah, I get that, but it seems so unnecessary to—”

“Look, I’m doing it the way the book says, alright?” Harry says, and Zayn can tell he’s getting frustrated. “The plan is to drop the car off, take the train from Brussels to Luxembourg, pick up the car that’s waiting there, and carry on the journey. That’s the way I’m doing it, that’s the way _we’re_ doing it. If you don’t like it…” Harry lifts his hands up and drops them down.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbles under his breath. “It takes longer, s’all. The journey is already long enough as it is.”

“I know, but I want to do it right. And if my manager has written it that way, then there must be a reason, and I’m just going with it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Plus, you don’t know what the traffic is going to be like, and we’ll miss all the traffic if we go by train,” Harry says. “It’s nearly three in the afternoon. Isn’t it busy at that time, too?”

Zayn smiles lowly. “Look at you, knowing some shit.”

“I know plenty of shit. It’s just usually not the right stuff.”

“So, if we’ve missed the train, what are we going to do?” Zayn asks.

“Uh… We’ll have to find a hotel and stop there for the night, see if they have any rooms. I’ll check the train times for the morning.”

“Do places just let you walk into them and buy rooms in hotels?”

“They do if you’re a celebrity.”

 

\+ + + +

 

“Correction,” Zayn says four hours later as they’re sat in the car, sweating with all the windows all the way down because the sun is lowering from its highest peak and making the car stuffy and the air outside humid, “Places let you walk in and buy rooms if you’re a celebrity, _and_ they’ve got rooms available.”

“Well, out of five different hotels, I’d expect them to have at least two rooms free.”

“We don’t need two rooms, Harry, we just need one.”

Harry grimaces. “Uhm, no we don’t.”

“Uhm, yes we do,” Zayn repeats, rolling his eyes. “Sharing a room isn’t the end of the world.”

“I don’t want to share a room with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t. I’ve been stuck in a car with you all day, I want my own space, my own shower, and my own bed,” Harry says. “If I didn’t care about that, then we could have stopped at the first hotel, but I do, so we didn’t.”

“What?” Zayn cries, sitting up in his chair. “You’re—the first hotel had a room? You said they didn’t have any.”

“I said they didn’t have enough rooms, not that they didn’t have any. They had one standard class room with one bed. I didn’t want it.”

Zayn pulls at his hair and bites down on his lip in frustration. “We’ve been driving for nearly two hours since the last hotel. Stuck in this warm fucking car. We could have just stopped at the first fucking hotel, Harry, for fuck sake.”

“I bet they didn’t even have air conditioning,” Harry says. “Why does air-con always break when it’s needed the most?”

“I can’t believe you, I really can’t.” Zayn sighs. “Can’t believe you made me sit in this hot fucking car because you didn’t want to share a room. We aren’t teenaged girls, Harry, we can share a room.”

“I don’t think teenaged girls are opposed to sharing a room at that age.”

“I would have slept on the floor if you had just told me, or on whatever shitty chair they had in the room.”

“Why? It’s bad for your back.”

“It’s a place to sleep, Harry,” Zayn says, slow—like Harry is stupid. “Anything is better than sitting in a muggy car, let alone sleep in it.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m not driving two hours back, the next hotel is about twenty minutes away, so we’ll check there.”

“I’m coming in with you this time.”

“No, stay in the car.”

“You aren’t sensible enough to make rational decisions. I feel like I’m with a child.”

“I just didn’t want to share a room, what’s the issue?” Harry asks, huffing.

“Okay, Harry, let’s just stop at the next hotel, yeah? We’ll have a look. And if they have a room, we’re booking it.”

“The last time I checked, I was the one with the money.”

“I have my own money, Harry,” he says, “I just don’t have enough of it to travel across Europe. If you don’t want to stay in the same room at the same hotel, just drop me off and find another one to stay at.”

“But that means I’d have to drive back and come get you in the morning.”

Zayn humphs. “Well, you know the solution then, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

Zayn ignores him and goes back to staring out the window, because it’s the only thing he can do in the small space of the car except feed Harry’s hunger for confrontation. He thinks they’re in Laeken, and, as he looks down to the map, he wonders how Harry even managed to get them this far, but he keeps his protests to himself; he knows they’re both tired and ratty, and the car is too warm, and even though it’s only four in the afternoon Zayn feels like he could fall asleep. It’s the stress, he thinks, it always makes him more fatigued.

“I’m gonna turn around and go back to the last hotel I saw,” Harry says. “It’s about half an hour away, but the next one is an hour across the country, according to the GPS, and the one back there has an easier route to the train station we need to be at tomorrow.”

“Thought it only had one room,” Zayn mutters, arm rested on the window frame, his cheek against his fist.

“It has, but I’m only going to make it more difficult if I keep going, and I don’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon driving around aimlessly. We’ve already been sat in here too long,” he says. “You slept in the car last time, so I’ll sleep in here tonight. S’only fair.”

“Since when do you care about being fair?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Harry turns the radio on low, so there’s noise to break up the tension between them but not enough to prohibit Harry from hearing the directions on the GPS. Zayn pulls his phone out when his eyes get too funny from watching how fast the world is moving outside, and he sees a message from Niall he didn’t hear the notification for.

 

N: _hows it’ goin_

Z: _As good as you’d expect it to go  
__I’m gonna be at the hotel soon, I’ll ring you a bit later._

Harry pulls into the hotel car park not long after and pulls up close to the entrance. He leaves for a few minutes, disappearing into the doors of the hotel, and gets Zayn’s bags out of the car and places them at the curb. He sits back in the car and wipes the sweat from his head.

“They had one room left, so I booked it for you. You have to be out by ten, but we’ll be on the road before then so make sure you’re up earlier,” Harry says.

“I said I could pay for it,” Zayn says, “you didn’t have to.”

“Well, I have. Don’t be ungrateful about it.”

Zayn scoffs. “I wasn’t.”

“Well, I didn’t hear a thank you.”

He huffs and bites his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I could’ve gotten my own—” he begins, but Harry looks over to him, and he swallows his lips to stop himself talking. “Thank you for getting my bags. Not that I couldn’t get them myself.”

“How bittersweet.”

“This whole thing is bittersweet,” Zayn mumbles, and climbs out the car.

When he has his bags in hand, he looks back—and he doesn’t really know why he does, but he does—to see Harry. His cheeks are flushed, head rolled back on the chair, eyes closed, and there’s a faint line of sweat below his lips that shines. Zayn wipes his own head and feels the sweat already forming, just by being in the sun for less than a minute.

He sighs and rolls his bag over to Harry’s open window. “Come share the room.”

Harry opens his eyes, startled, and narrows his eyes at the brightness of the sun. “What?”

“Just come to the room with me. We’ll see what space there is, and, well, we’ll make it work.”

“I told you, I’m not sharing a room with you.”

“So, you’d rather sit in this heat and sweat? You won’t get a good night’s sleep in the car when it’s this warm,” he says.

“I’ll put the AC on.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like to use it ‘cause it eats the fuel too quickly.”

“Yeah, it does, but I’m gonna have to, aren’t I?”

“No,” Zayn says, because it’s obvious, “just come up to the room with me. There’s probably AC, and you can shower.” Zayn waits there for a thrice, the sun beaming down on him and making him hot, and he watches Harry mull it over. “What’s so bad about sharing a room with me? I know you’re not amazingly fond of me, but it’s just a room.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not that. I don’t share rooms with anyone, I never have. It’s just… it’s my space at the end of the day where I can be alone, my privacy, my quiet. I don’t like it when I don’t have that.”

“Well, I’ll be quiet, then,” Zayn says. “Although, I’ve gotta ring my son after.”

Harry hums but remains still, and Zayn huffs in the heat.

“C’mon, man, I’m just stood here, sweating.”

“What’s the issue with me just sleeping here?”

“It’s too warm and it’s uncomfortable. I know, I slept in here last night. You know, for such an expensive car, the seats are shit.”

“No, I mean, like, I thought you would’ve liked to see me be uncomfortable and suffer whilst you have the room,” Harry says.

“Yeah, well,” Zayn begins, tapping the window frame with his fingers in a pattern, “I suppose you don’t know me, either.”

Harry looks to him, and there’s this soft pensiveness in his eyes and in his brows as they gently furrow that Zayn hasn’t seen before. His tongue plays in his cheek, fingers running over the steering wheel, and Zayn gestures his hands as if to say “ _Well?_ ” before he takes the keys out of the ignition.

“Alright, fine,” he says, holding his finger up in pause, “but only because I want a shower.”

Zayn moves out of the way of the door, so Harry can get out. “Fine. I’m having a shower first.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Harry slams the once he’s gotten his bags out. “I’m having a shower first.”

“I slept in a hot car last night, and I haven’t brushed my teeth for more than twenty-four hours. I feel dirty, I’m showering first,” Zayn says. “Anyway, it’s my room.”

“It’s the room that _I_ paid for.”

“Which you then gave to _me_. Which also means that I get the bed.”

“Uhm, no.” Harry pulls a face.

“Again, I slept in a hot car with uncomfortable seats last night. _I’m_ getting the bed, and I’m not arguing with you about it,” Zayn finalises, and is surprised when Harry shuts up only with a mumble under his breath.

When they get to the foot of the stairs, Zayn and Harry walk opposite ways; one to the elevator, and the other to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks, pressing the elevator button.

“I’m taking the stairs,” Zayn replies, and re-shifts so he can carry the bags up the stairs.

“You’re not gonna get all the way up the stairs with that lot,” Harry says. “Just take the elevator with me.”

“I don’t do elevators. I’ll just take the stairs.”

Zayn is only up the first half-flight when he feels the weight of the bags balancing on his back lift. He looks over to see Harry straddling them on his back, his own two bags in his hands. He carries on walking, whilst Zayn, sort of, just stands there, a partial shock in his mouth open ajar, in the middle of the stairs, watching him.

Harry looks back. “C’mon, why are you just stood there?”

Zayn closes his mouth and rushes up the stairs to catch up with him, shortening the handle on his suitcase and carrying it up instead.

“Why have you got so many bags, anyway?” Harry asks.

“It’s not that many.”

“A suitcase and two carry bags. You don’t think that’s a lot?”

“It’s clothes for two weeks, toiletries, a few books, and a, uhm… a suit, for the funeral.” Zayn swallows and takes in a deep breath when his throat closes. “And I, uh, have OCD, so there’s some cleaning products in there so I can clean the rooms I stay in, and that. Like, in hotels and stuff.”

“Oh,” is all Harry says. “Well, is my car clean enough?”

“Yeah, yeah, it, uhm, it still actually has that fresh car smell, and there weren’t any bits on the floor, so.”

“It smells like new car because it _is_ a new car,” Harry says. “I got it to go on this road-trip.”

“Just for this road-trip?”

“Yeah. I do have a Range Rover, but the tyre was flat, and it was quicker to buy a new one.”

Zayn gives him this look, this “are-you-serious?” type of look, his one brow quirked and the other lay low, mouth open. “That is the most vain and privileged thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“No, I just mean, like, I only realised the tyre was flat when I was going to leave, so it was quicker to go to a lot and buy a new one. Changing the tyre would have put me behind by a few hours and I would’ve missed the ferry,” he says, dropping the bags down at the door of the room. “And if I had missed the ferry, you wouldn’t be getting a lift all the way to Russia, would you?”

Zayn unlocks the room door and rolls his bags in, Harry following. “No, guess not.”

“So, be thankful for my profligacy.”

“I’ll let you have that one.”

They drop the bags at the foot of the bed, and Zayn looks around. It’s a simple room, plain white walls and an average double bed with blank sheets, bedside tables at each side. A kitchen sink with a small counter-top sits on the wall opposite the bed; a kettle and a fridge below and the usual complementary snacks sat on the side. There’s a small settee by the window, and by the springs to the side Zayn assumes it’s a fold out bed. A small bathroom with just a shower, a sink, and a toilet, all marble and white and shiny, and although he thinks it doesn’t look dirty, Zayn knows he’ll be cleaning it again.

“Looks like you won’t be sleeping on the floor, ay?” Zayn points to the settee.

“I’m too tall for it. My legs’ll be hanging off the end.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks as he picks up one of the biscuits on the side and shoves it in his mouth. He picks up a piece of paper, shoulders slumping as he reads. “Dinner ended at six.”

“What time is it?”

He checks his watch. “Four minutes past.”

“Oh.”

Zayn feels his belly rumbling, and Harry looks over to him as he hears it, but Zayn looks away and stoops down to unzip his suitcase. He pulls out his toiletry bag and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

“There’s a restaurant a few buildings down. I think I’ve been there before,” Harry says as Zayn walks back into the room. “I might go down and see what they’ve got, bring some food back for us.”

“Will they just let you take it out like that?”

“They should do. If not, I’ll pull out the famous card,” Harry says. Zayn pauses what he’s doing and looks over to him. “What? I’m hungry and I want food, and I know you are, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m not that desperate.”

“They might know who I am, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll give it me on the house.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Harry, it’s probably a growing business, and every penny that they get counts,” Zayn says. “Don’t skimp out like that just ‘cause you’re famous. It’s greedy and using your fame for bad.”

“It’s not—I think you’re being a bit dramatic,” Harry says.

He pauses what he’s doing and turns to Harry. “Okay, then, put it like this: you were a young, impressionable artist once. How would you feel if a guy came over to you and demanded free tickets, even though you knew he was rich and could easily afford them? That he was just being arrogant and tight. You’d feel robbed, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s lips form a thin line, and he looks around the room. “Suppose that’s a good point.”

“Why are we even having this conversation? It’s stupid,” Zayn says, and flops down onto the bed.

“I’m gonna go, then. Get some food,” Harry says.

“I’ll pay for mine, it’s fine.”

“You just went on a rant about how I’m rich, and you want me to let you pay for your own food when I know you haven’t got much money?” Harry rolls his eyes. “Make up your mind, man. I’ll pay for the food.”

“I just don’t like the idea of taking things from you.”

“You’re not taking things from me, I’m giving them to you. I know you’re stubborn enough to pay for your own things if you could.”

“I know, I just…” Zayn trails off, raising his hands in the air and dropping them. He looks to Harry, and Zayn hopes he can see the gratefulness in his eyes. “Thanks. I don’t just mean for dinner, but for, like, you know, everything.”

Harry fiddles with the ring on his finger. “You’re welcome,” he says, and grabs they key off the side in haste, like he can’t wait to leave the room. “Right, I’m off. Are you going to get in the shower, now?”

“Yeah, probably. I’m just gonna have a drink and then, you know, clean,” Zayn says.

“Right. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Alright.”

Zayn makes a cup of tea with the twining’s sachets on the side, leaving one on the side for Harry even though he knows it’ll be cold by the time he gets back. He cleans the shower with bleach, the sink, the taps, and the toilet—twice just for good measure—before laying down a towel on the ground outside the shower and getting in. He’s in there longer than he should be, he knows, and he’s still in there when Harry arrives back with food that makes his mouth water as the smells soak in through the cracks in the door, but the cold water feels so good on his aching and tired skin, refreshing his eyes and his mind, that he just stands there long after he’s washed, until he’s cold and goose-bumps rise on his arms.

Harry knocks on the door not long after. “Zayn, your phone is ringing, and your food is going cold.”

“Who is it?”

“Guy called Niall.”

Zayn curses under his breath. “Can you just answer it and tell him I’ll ring him back in a few?” he calls.

“Okay.”

Zayn steps out and dries his body, shifting his slippers on his feet and wrapping the towel around his lower half. When he opens the door, Harry is still on his phone, and Zayn realises he’s talking to Jude as he continues to listen on to the conversation—something about spider-man and hot-dogs. This knot forms in the pit of his stomach, a defensive streak shining bright hot in his chest, and he jogs over to Harry to take the phone off him.

“I’ve got it now,” he says, and holds his hand out.

“Listen, buddy, your dad is here now, so I’m going to pass the phone over to him. But I hope you enjoy your pizza, and make sure to save me a slice, okay?” Harry jokes, and Jude innocently agrees on the other end of the phone before Harry hands it to Zayn.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, his demeanour changing as soon as he hears his son’s voice on the other end of the line. “How are you? Are you okay?”

 _“Yeah. Nanny brought us pizza_ ,” he says, excited.

“Is it brought or bought?”

Jude hums and thinks about it for a second. _“Bought.”_

“That’s right, baby, yeah.” Zayn smiles. He sits down on the end of the bed furthest away from Harry, his back facing him to get the most privacy, even though he knows it does little when they’re sharing the same room. “I thought I said no pizza. Am I gonna have to tell Nanny off?”

 _“Nanny said that we could get pizza or ice-cream ‘cause I had tears on my cheeks ‘cause I thought of you and I got all sad,”_ Jude says, despite sounding anything but sad.

“Oh, baby,” Zayn coos. “I miss you, too, a lot.”

_“A lot, a lot, a lot?”_

“A lot, a lot, a lot, _a lot_.”

Jude giggles, and Zayn bites down on his smile to stop it growing impossibly wider.

“Was school okay?”

_“Yeah, Baba. We made finger paintings, and we started learning clock faces. And Tom got shouted at because he was being naughty.”_

“But you were behaving, yeah?”

_“I always do, Baba. But I laugh too much sometimes, and the teacher has to shush me.”_

“There’s nothing wrong with laughing too much, baby.”

_“Baba, when are you coming home?”_

“Uhm,” Zayn begins, glances behind his shoulder and sees Harry watching him with an indifference on his face. “I think the trip is going to be just a little longer than I thought. Just a little longer, though.”

He can’t see the pout on Jude’s lips, but he knows it’s there, and a guilt seeds in his chest because he knows he’s not there to wipe it away.

“ _But, I miss you,”_ he says in a quiet voice.

“I know, baby. I miss you so much, and if I could reach down the phone and give you hugs and kisses I would,” he says. “But it’s already been two days, look how fast that time went, yeah?”

_“Yeah. How much longer is it until you’re home?”_

“I don’t know, baby. Eight or nine days?” he says, and Jude goes quiet on the end of the phone, and he knows that Jude is getting upset—for real, and not just throwing a little tantrum—because he always goes quiet when he’s about to cry, always shuts off, just like his daddy. “But it’s okay, baby, okay? Don’t get upset. I’ll be back before you know it. And we can do whatever you want to do.”

_“Even… Even if it’s pizza?”_

Zayn laughs. “Yes, even if it’s pizza.”

_“And ice-cream?”_

“And ice-cream? I don’t know about that one.”

 _“And the cinema,”_ he demands in a giggle.

“ _And_ the cinema? I’m not rich, y’know,” Zayn teases.

_“But, Incredibles number two is gonna be at the cinema and I want to see it, Baba. It looks really, really, really good. I watch the advert when it comes on TV. Ask Uncle Niall, he has to turn it up and everything, ask him, Baba.”_

“Okay, okay, I suppose, we could go to the cinema,” Zayn says, and Jude cheers on the other end of the phone. “And anyway, why were you telling Harry about the time I spilt the drinks and the popcorn all down me, huh? Are you trying to embarrass me?”

Jude laughs. _“It’s a funny story.”_

“How did you even get to that?”

_“Incredibles number two came on the TV and I told him I wanted to watch it.”_

Zayn narrows his eyes and looks over his shoulder to see Harry sat there with such a genuine smile on his lips that it makes him grin, too. “Did Harry tell you to ask me to go to the cinema?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jude admits. _“But he told me not to tell you, so don’t tell him I told you, Baba,”_ he adds in a whisper.

“Okay, I won’t,” he whispers back.

_“I love you, Baba.”_

“I love you, too, meri jaan.” Zayn’s lips pull up at the side, sort of bittersweet and loving. “I’m gonna let you go now, okay? I want to speak to uncle Niall if he’s there.”

_“Okay, Baba.”_

“Have you got any homework?” Zayn asks, and Jude hums a yes through the phone. “Make sure you do it after tea, then, okay, baby?”

 _“Okay.”_ He huffs.

“Okay. I love you, baby. Pass the phone to Uncle Niall, okay?”

 _“Alright, lad?”_ Niall says. _“How’s France?”_

“Hot. England?”

 _“It’s been pissing it down all day,”_ he says _. “We got Jude early from school ‘cause the thunder was scarin’ him and he couldn’t calm down, so the teacher rang us. Ye mam was at work so me and Queen picked him up. Trish met us after work and we got pizza.”_

“He said it’s ‘cause he missed me.”

_“Yeah, he did. He said somethin’ about how you usually calm him down and sing to him when he’s scared, but you weren’t here. So ye mam bribed him with pizza and he perked up.”_

Zayn sighs and stands up from the bed, joining Harry at the small table in the corner of the room. Harry pushes his food towards him, already unwrapped, a fork sitting beside it. Zayn doesn’t have the heart to tell Harry that he’s not very fond of mac n cheese, but he knows it was probably one of the only vegetarian options on the menu—it always is—and he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he silently thanks him instead; and Harry gives him this meagre smile that almost makes him look shy—youthful and uncorrupted.

“I wish I could be there with him,” he says. “I’m really missing him, and I know I’m only gonna miss him more the further away I go.”

_“He’s alright with us, don’t worry. He’s as happy as day now he’s got his pizza and Monsters. Inc.”_

“As long as he’s okay,” Zayn mumbles through his food. “You know, if anything goes wrong, _anything_ , I’ll come straight home.”

_“And how would you do that?”_

“I don’t know, I’d find a way. No one is more important to me than Jude, you know that. I’d come back home if he needed me.”

Zayn looks up to Harry but turns away when their eyes meet.

 _“I know you would, ya daft sod,”_ Niall says. “ _But, honestly, he’s fine, mate. If there’s a problem, I’ll phone you. And, you know how good Trish is with him, he’s in good hands.”_

“Yeah, I know he is. I just prefer it when he’s in my hands.”

_“You’re a tad over-protective, mate, I’ve gotta tell ya.”_

“Of course I’m over-protective of my son, Niall, he’s four years old. Maybe it’d be unjustified if he was 15 years older and we weren’t an ocean away…” he shakes his head and sighs, leans his elbow on the table and rubs his stressed forehead.

 _“Look, he’s okay,”_ Niall assures, “ _stop stressin’ about it, lad. You’ve got enough on your mind as it is, stop adding more to ya plate and swallow what ya got first. Just… just get to the funeral, and we’ll sort it out from there.”_

“Yeah,” he mumbles, chewing on his lip, “yeah, you’re right. I’m just worried he’s not coping without me.”

“ _He gets upset sometimes, but he’s over it in a few minutes. You know how kids are.”_

“Alright. Please, Ni, call me if anything goes wrong or if he wants to speak to me, I don’t care what time it is, just ring me.”

“ _Will do, mate, will do.”_

“I’m gonna go, m’trying to eat me dinner,” Zayn says, but he puts his fork down.

_“Yeah, okay. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Goodnight, man.”_

“Goodnight.”

Zayn drops his phone on the table with a thud. Harry passes a water bottle to him which he takes with thanks and gulps it down. He goes back to his food, taking a mouthful here and there, but picking and toying with the rest, his appetite gone at the thought of Jude being scared and Zayn not being there to assure him.

“Are you okay, Zayn?”

Zayn looks up and finds Harry’s eyes, in their brightness and smaragdine that dance as the low sunlight shines in through the window. He doesn’t look away this time, keeps their eyes together until Zayn has to blink and he looks back down to the white of the table cloth, wiping away the moment before it can mean something to remember.

“I’m fine,” he says, shrugging, “just homesick. I don’t really go away from home much, especially not since Jude was born. The most I go is back up to Bradford to see my family, and Jude usually comes with me, so we’re not apart much. And it’s… strange.”

“He’s, uh, he’s funny, your son,” Harry says. “He’s got an old head, I can tell, just by speaking to him for a few minutes. He’s like you.”

“Well, I suppose that’s sort of better than him being like his mum,” Zayn mutters between his lips and a sip of water.

“What’s wrong with his mother?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not gonna get into it, especially not with a stranger.”

“Sometimes, strangers are the best people to talk to.”

“Yes, but I don’t exactly want to share my personal business with someone who hates me,” Zayn prods at his food again, because it’s his only reason to look down and he doesn’t really want to look at Harry.

Harry exhales. “I don’t hate you, Zayn. I just hate what you did, what you do.”

“And what exactly do I do?”

“You write things about celebrities that aren’t true, you give into rumours, feed them, give more people the chance to believe them, whilst forgetting the fact the celebrities you’re writing about are people, too,” Harry says.

“Well, perhaps, if celebrities actually acted more like people, I’d see the point,” he argues, looking up to Harry with sharp eyes before peeling away again.

But it’s long enough to see the disbelief in Harry’s eyes. Not anger or hate or resentment; disbelief, and frustration, and a thin, shining thread that threatens to be cut.

“Society doesn’t even give us a chance to,” he says, his tone soft and undistinguished; tight and raw, and making Zayn shift in the chair so he’s sat up straight. “People put us on pedestals, hold us to expectations and standards we didn’t ask for, but we’re the bad guys when we disappoint you. Society tells us that we can’t be people, it tells us we have to be these… Gods that can’t do wrong, that are perfect and amazing and good, like we’re fucking superheroes or some shit.”

“And you’re saying that’s what made you become an addict? What’s dragged you to all those parties, and brought all those prostitutes up to your hotels, and put that bottle of vodka in your hand, and what made you act like such a deep-set, arrogant asshole?” Zayn indignantly says, and there’d be more malice in his words if it weren’t for the tiredness and the complacency sinking in to his skin.

“In rebellion?” Harry nods. “Yes. What right does society have to tell me what to do, and what to think, and what to say? You don’t think _that’s_ arrogant and entitled?” Zayn stays silent. “I’m just a guy. And a lot of people say a lot of shit about me.”

“So, what made what I said so different, huh?”

Harry strokes out the creases in the tablecloth, ruffles them up so he can do it again. “I read what most journalists say about me and I laugh, I know they’re only in it to get a pay-cheque or a few hundred quid or to make themselves look good and witty, to make people hate them because that’s better than no-one really knowing them,” he says, and he pauses to stare at Zayn, like he’s trying to find something in his eyes before he begins again. “But I read your article, and the passion… I knew you meant what you said, and knowing someone out there felt so purely about something so incorrect, it got me. What right did you have to think of me that way, when you didn’t even know me?”

“It’s not up to me to know who you are. Of course I don’t know you, not in that way, I’d have to be as close as a brother or a mother or a lover to know that,” Zayn says, sitting back on his chair. “But, as a society, we can only judge celebrities on what they decide to show of themselves, and you haven’t shown the best, have you? Parties and drugs and womanising antics.”

Harry smirks. “Does it still count as womanising if it’s not just women?”

Zayn takes a deep breath and looks out the window. “You know what I mean, Harry.”

Zayn’s words echo around the room. Quiet dwells and settles on the surfaces like dust. Outside in the street there’s a party, and Zayn watches them dancing across the pavements, hands held and eyes alive and drinks escaping into the night as they swirl around the glasses, and they all sing as music plays from a club wedged in between the mass that reverberates a pound of symphonic bass all the way up to him in the hotel, that becomes one with the quiet of the dawn and the softening hues in the sky as they fade. He watches them with an odd, fascinated disinterest that swells his eyes, and he realises how many worlds away he is from someone not far away from him, at all. It’s funny how that works. 

The bubble he’s created in the room with Harry, protecting them, entrapping them, as so that even a knock on the door or a bang from the room below wouldn’t pierce or startle it in any way, has floated by without him even noticing and left them exposed to an unwelcome air that lacerates as it lingers between their breaths. 

“I’m gonna go to bed,” he says, coughing the croak away in his voice. He tucks his chair in and pulls some clothes from his bag to change in to as he walks over. “Thanks for dinner.”

“But you didn’t even eat it.”

“I’m not really hungry anymore,” he mumbles. “D’you mind wrapping it up for me? I’ll eat it in the morning, or summat.”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry checks his watch. “Are you sure you want to go to bed now? It’s, uhm, it’s only nine.”

“Yeah, I’m tired, and my back’s killing me.”

“Alright. I’m gonna, uhm, I’m gonna go have a drink down at the bar. I’ll be quiet when I come in, in case you’re asleep.”

“Thanks.” Zayn walks into the bathroom but pops his head back out. “Harry,” he says, and Harry looks to him. “No more cocaine, please. At least, not whilst driving.”

Harry nods. “I’ll try.”

Zayn shuts the bathroom door behind him with a sigh, and a lonesome privacy melts into his bones. 

 


	2. the world slows 'till there's nothing left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few familiar names that I can see commenting and leaving kudos and reblogging this story, names that I remeber from my other works--and I just wanted to say, that's so fucking awesome. thank you for all of the support, it means thiiiiiiiiis much. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading.

 

Zayn thinks he hears Harry return in the middle of the night, the faint scent of whiskey breath in the air before he drifts back off to sleep. When he wakes up again, the sun already risen and room too warm, Zayn looks over his shoulder to the dip in the bed and finds Harry flat out next to him. The sheet is off them both, ruffled up into the small space between their backs, but Zayn still feels sweaty in his boxers and his shirt.

He stretches and yawns and stands with gritty eyes he rubs with his fists and turns to the bathroom. It takes him a few seconds to realise that his piss sounds weird hitting the toilet, and he looks down with squinty eyes to see a piece of plastic floating around. As it swills around, a white powder inside shuffles around, and it takes longer for Zayn to piece it together in his half-conscious mind. He drops the lid and flushes the toilet, and says nothing of it to Harry when he walks back into the room and he’s sat up in bed, rubbing his forehead and combing his hair messily with his hand. He says nothing, despite wanting to, despite this itch he’s desperate to scratch on the back of his neck whenever those bursts of awkward seconds become too much for him to do nothing in.

“Did you sleep okay?” Harry asks as they’re walking out the room, breakfast done and supplies packed—the first words they’ve spoken all morning.

“Fine, yeah,” Zayn replies, and Harry nods his head with a ‘ _good’_. “I heard you come in, but I don’t know what time it was.”

“It was about one, I think, so I haven’t had much sleep. Couple hours, about six.” Harry clears his throat. “Should be alright, though. I’ve gone longer with less sleep, usually inebriated.”

“Well, I’m a dad. If I know anything about it, I know it’s possible to go on less than an hour’s sleep.”

“That’s good to know.” They stop at the foot of the stairs. “Why don’t you, uhm, why don’t you let me take the bags in the elevator and then you can walk down, instead of you carrying them down with you.”

“Well, what if you get stuck in the elevator? Then, I won’t have any of my bags,” Zayn says.

“If I get stuck in the elevator, you won’t be going anywhere.” Harry laughs at the concerned look on Zayn’s face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get stuck, alright? It’s perfectly fine. And if I do, I’ll sue the hotel.”

“Don’t do that, why you gotta say things like that for?” Zayn chastises.

“M’just saying,” he mumbles, and takes Zayn’s bags from him. “Go on, I’ll meet you down at the bottom.” 

By the time Zayn reaches the ground floor, Harry is already walking out of the doors, and all the bags are packed away by the time he gets to the car. They slide into the front seats, the car sweltering hot, and they both make these exasperated sounds, like they can’t breathe, because of how warm it is.

“You checked out of the hotel, yeah?”

“Of course I did, Zayn. I did it this morning whilst you were eating breakfast,” Harry says, attitude already on full display at 7am, and all Zayn has the energy to do is roll his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I’m just irritable. I’ve got no—I haven’t got anything, you know, like that, so… I feel all itchy, like I can’t keep still.”

“I thought you had a bag of the stuff,” Zayn says, and looks over with narrowed eyes as Harry starts the ignition and pulls out of the parking space. “You didn’t do it all last night, did you?”

“No, no. I, uh, gave it away, to some other junkie at the bar downstairs,” he lies. “You said no more cocaine, and I thought it’d just be more difficult if it was burning a hole in my pocket.”

“Some guy in the bar, huh?” Zayn plays along. “What’s the chance there was another addict in the bar with you.”

“They’re everywhere, mate. Some of ‘em are just better at hiding it,” Harry says, adding, “Obviously, not me, but that’s because I didn’t care enough to hide it. Suppose, I was never really ashamed of it, which, looking back wasn’t the right way to think, I know that now. It’s not something to be proud of.”

A twinge of empathy Zayn doesn’t want settles into his chest, and his lips slide to the side in an awkward smile. “Well, each step to recovery is better than none, even if you wobble.”

Harry grins—more to himself, to the road as he pulls out, than anyone, but Zayn catches it.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” he says.

“Guess I’ve been a little harsh about it,” Zayn mumbles, like he doesn’t want to admit it but knows he should. “Considering how close to addiction I’ve been, how close I still am to it.”

“You’ve been addicted?” Harry asks.

“Not me, no. Well, I guess it depends what you consider addiction.”

“I think addiction is anything that forces you to live your life around it, to bend to it, you know? Change the things around it, strains the relationships you have or the life you live—like you can’t live normally with it, but you feel like you wouldn’t be able to live normally without it,” Harry says.

“That was very wise.”

 “I’ve got a bit of intellect in the noggin’.” He smirks and taps the side of his head. “I suppose, in that way, your OCD is an addiction? A mental one, I mean.”

Zayn raises his brows. “Yeah. Yeah, in that way, it is, yeah.”

Harry nods. “I mean, I’ve never had OCD, I don’t have it, but…” He swallows. “I have anxiety, I know how scary it can be sometimes. Like you’ll die or something. Being in the light all the time with camera’s flashing in your faces, and people being so close you could tell what they had for dinner or breakfast, it does that to you. People being so close that you feel like you don’t have any personal space.”

“Is that why you like your privacy so much?”

“Yeah, suppose so. It’s just me time, my time. I can do whatever I want and know no one is watching,” he replies. “Although, I’ve had some paps that are so desperate to get photo’s they climb up the sides of the hotels or go into surrounding buildings just to get a shot into my room. S’why I always keep the curtains closed, now.”

“I’m glad I’m not a celebrity,” Zayn says, adjusting the seat so he can lean back. “There was a point in my life where I wanted it, just to be able to pay the bills and tax and even have houses or villa’s in different countries and not have to financially worry about anything, but it’s not a life I’d wish on myself, not a life I want to live.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks after a few minutes of tapping a gentle rhythm on his knee to appease the silence.

“To the train station. We’re heading to Luxembourg?”

“Right.” He clocks his fingers. “I forgot.”

Harry turns the radio on, changes the channel, and a man starts speaking in French before a song that sounds familiar to him begins to play. He turns it up.

“I love this song.”

Zayn quirks his brow and perks his head up. “Isn’t this your song?”

Harry looks over to him with a smirk-like grin. “You know my music?”

“Yeah. It plays on the radio sometimes, or on the music channels on TV,” Zayn says, but Harry keeps the smirk. “Don’t think I sit around listening to your music, or some shit. I don’t. I just know what’s on the radio.”

“Are you a fan of the music?”

Zayn shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“It’s alright, huh? What do you like about it?”

“Are we going to have this conversation?” Zayn moans.

“Go on, just tell me one good thing about it.”

“Uhm…” Zayn closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. “I guess, your lyrics are good? Most songs today have really shallow and meaningless lyrics, but from what I’ve heard of yours, they’re alright.”

“ _Just_ alright?”

“yes, Harry, they’re _just_ alright.”

“Wow. Two positive things in one day. What’s gotten into you?”

“Tiredness and a grudge that’s slipping away.”

Harry is quiet for a thrice, but Zayn can hear his foot tapping away on the floor of the car, the unspoken words on his lips he’s desperate to say that he hides with a hum to his own song.

“So, what else do you like about my music?” he eventually asks.

“Harry.” He peeks his eye open and glances over to see a smug look on Harry’s face. “Don’t push it.”

He turns the radio down slightly. “It’s a long day ahead of us, today. We’ve gotta be in Berlin by the end of the day, to be on schedule.”

“Berlin?” Zayn repeats. “But we’re still in France.”

“I know.”

“We’d have to be travelling until, like… like, midnight tonight.”

“I know. Which is why I was gonna suggest sleeping on the train, so you don’t get too knackered in the day,” Harry says. “I know I’m going to.”

“Can’t we just stop somewhere in the evening and carry on tomorrow?” Zayn asks, desperately almost. The idea of sitting down all day in cars and trains is already making his ass hurt. “We could stop off in—”

“We’re already nearly a day behind. We should be going into Germany by now,” Harry says. “Plus, the hotel I booked in Berlin is for tonight, so if we don’t get there we don’t have a room.”

“I thought you said you didn’t book any more hotels?”

“Yeah. Well, I phoned up this hotel last night whilst I was sat in the bar and booked a room for today. It’s going to be too warm to sleep in the car,” he explains.

“Oh, okay.” Zayn’s shoulders slump. “You’re alright with sharing a room with me again?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t so bad, or as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Harry says. “To be honest, I thought we were going to be at each other’s throats, being in such a small space together all night.”

“Yeah, I did, too,” Zayn says. “So, when are we going to get to the train station.”

“Uh…” Harry checks the GPS. “About, ten minutes.”

“And how long is the train?”

“Well, the first train is an hour, then we have to get off and walk over to the next station which is about two minutes away, and then we’re on another train for about an hour and a half. And then, we’ll be in Cologne.”

Zayn huffs. “So, what are we going to do the whole time?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be driving half the day, so probably listening to the radio. You can do what you want. Didn’t you say you had some books?”

“Yeah, but I can’t read in the car, makes my eyes go all funny,” Zayn says, smiling when Jude pops into his mind. “We could play I Spy.”

“We aren’t children.”

“You act enough like one,” Zayn remarks, and Harry scowls at him. “It’s not a children’s game, it’s a travel game.”

“I’m not playing I Spy.”   

“Why?”

“Christ—because I don’t fucking want to, alright?” Harry huffs.

Zayn sink down into his chair. “Fine. I’ll listen to an audiobook or summat.”

“It’s good that you read and listen to books, you know?” Harry says. “‘Cause your own writing really needs some work, like, proper work.”

“Oh, you’re so funny,” Zayn grumbles. “Just when I thought you were gonna give it a rest.”

“‘Cause I read your article and…” He blows out his cheeks and exhales. “I lost brain cells. I could actually feel the IQ leaving me as I read it.”

“Why would you read summat if you knew you were getting dumber from reading it?” Zayn says. “It’s not like you need to be any thicker. You didn’t even graduate from high school.”

Zayn sees Harry’s jaw grow tight from his peripheral view, and he smirks into his hand as it comes to cover his mouth.

“It’s a shame that you think the educational system is tantamount to someone’s intellect,” he says, voice low. “And, for your information— ‘cause I know you’re not very good at getting your facts straight—I did finish high school _and_ college, just not at the conventional time that society expects you to.”

“You don’t do a lot that society expects you to, do you, mate?” Zayn sarcastically says, _goads_. “Makes you wonder whether the issue is with society or you.”

“It’s always society.” Harry looks to him. “Always.”

“Can you keep your fucking eyes on the road,” Zayn cries, gesturing in front. “You’re a mad man in silk skin, Harry.”

“How d’you know my skin is like silk if you’ve never touched it?” Harry asks.

“It was metaphorical, mate.”

There’s a pause.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Zayn looks over to him, and it’s quick enough for something to crack in the back of his head and fizzle and turn warm as he looks at Harry with wide eyes. “What?”

Harry shrugs. “We could fuck if you wanted to.”

“How the bloody fuck did the conversation get to this?” Zayn rubs his eyes, sighing and sitting back in his seat.

“I’m just saying,” he says, like it’s such a normal thing to say, “we’re two guys on the road, alone, and we have needs. As people, not two people who are in a complicated situation, we could leave it all at the door for a few minutes if you wanted to.” He shrugs. “I’m not opposed to it.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Where’s your morality?”

“Don’t mistake my confident sexual disposition as a lack of morality. I just know what I want, sexually,” he says, before reiterating, “not that I’m saying I want you, I’m saying that if I’m sexually in need I have no issue with attaining that—you know what I mean.”

“It sounds like you want to fuck me.”

“Are you opposed to it?”

“Yes, Harry, I am,” Zayn almost snaps. “I’m not someone who just sleeps with any random people, especially not people I’m in discourse with.”

“‘ _In discourse with’,_ ” Harry mocks. Zayn gives him this look, and he laughs. “So, what type of people do you sleep with?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Are you one of those love-dovey types that can only fuck people you have an emotional connection with?” Harry asks, a supercilious tweak to the end of his voice. Zayn doesn’t respond, stays silent, lips pierced and jaw locked, and he stares out the window instead. “You are, huh?”

“If you’re gonna mock me about my sexual activity, Harry, maybe you should take your own advice and not assume you know someone when you don’t,” Zayn says, stern and detached. “I’m just not a fan of casual sex, and it isn’t ever going to happen with you, so just, please, shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the road.”

“I’m just making conversation,” Harry defends.

“No, you’re being a wanker.”

Zayn pulls the earphones he stuffed into his pocket from his bag this morning, untangles them, and slips them in. He plays an audiobook, but between arriving at the train station, moving the bags into a compartment and getting comfortable, and the unwanted dirty thoughts that Harry seeded into his mind taking away his attention whenever he forgets for too long—the ones that make him shift or pull his trousers at the thought of Harry’s hands, his hips, the softness of his hair against Zayn’s neck— makes sure that he doesn’t have time to concentrate properly on the book, and eventually he gives up, sighs, and throws his earphones to the side.

When he looks up across the compartment, Harry has a notebook in his one hand, a pencil he taps against his knee in a pattern between the fingers of his other, and he’s in such a deep thought that he doesn’t notice Zayn’s frustration.

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks.

Harry doesn’t look up as he speaks. “Writing. Lyrics, and that. Trying to, anyway. It’s the first time in a while I’ve done this sober enough to write anything good enough. Don’t think I can. Something to do with, like, how I can’t access that emotional and sensitive part of my mind without a little narcotic encouragement. It’s ‘cause my mind has become so numb from the drugs; that’s what my therapist says, anyway.”

“You can’t write a song with cocaine?”

“No, not just cocaine. Anything like that, really; alcohol, weed, a cigarette,” he says, and looks up. “You got one?”

Zayn points up to the rack above. “In the bag above you. In the side area.”

Harry grabs the packet of B&H’s from the bag and puts one between his teeth, cheekily sliding another behind his ear before he throws the packet to Zayn and puts the bag back on the rack. He ignites the lighter and sets it alight, bending forward to light Zayn’s, too.

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Zayn says, blowing out smoke.

“Ah, who gives a fuck. The window’s open.”

“So, what are you writing about?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“I’m bored, and I’ve got nothing better to do than talk to you.”

Harry turns his notebook around and shows Zayn the empty page. “Nothing yet.”

“And is this for a new album, or…”

“I’m just playing around with ideas,” Harry says. “I released an album not long ago, though I think you know that.” Zayn looks away with a cough and returns to Harry. “But, just because I’ve released an album doesn’t mean I can stop writing. It’s a constant thing. You know that, right? As a writer. You don’t just stop writing because you’ve written one article, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Zayn replies.

“Although…” Harry raises his brows and grimaces his lips.

“Don’t,” Zayn interrupts him before he can begin, “think about it.”

He holds his hand up. “You’re right,” he says, mumbling under his breath, “for once.”

Zayn huffs. “You are a child, Harry.”

“I forgot you were the epitome of maturity and adulthood.”

“I didn’t say I was. I’m just saying, you could act a little bit more like your age, sometimes.”

“And what would you call your behaviour when you wrote the article about me?”

“I would call it an adult doing their job to provide for their family.”

“Really?” Harry hums. “I’d call it you disregarding how people feel for a bit of money.”

“And that money puts food on the table and a roof over my son’s head,” Zayn retaliates, and he hates that he does because he knows Harry is only doing it to get to him, and he’s giving in. “If you want me to apologise for putting my family above you then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

“And you would put your morals below him, too?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” Zayn responds, without hesitation, “every day if I had to. If I had to steal food from shops and money from homes of those who earned it themselves, I would. If I had to rag my clothes and sit on the street all day and beg strangers for money, I would. If I had to hurt someone…” He swallows and looks away from Harry. “If I had to hurt someone, just so I could protect and look after my son, I would. I’d go to the ends of the earth and back for him. And, I don’t know about you, but when I weigh all that up, your feelings don’t really seem to come onto the scale.” He leans forward, so his arms are on his elbows, and he finds the defence in Harry’s eyes. “Don’t under-estimate what a loving father will do for his son, for his daughter, or his mum, or dad, or family, or best friend.”

Harry swallows. “I don’t.”

“Good. Then maybe you can see how my son’s well being and happiness is much more important than how you got upset over a little, poxy article that you decided to read—why? I don’t even know. You haven’t told me that one.”

“Haven’t told you what?”

“Why you’re so keen on reading things that slander you, put your name down,” Zayn says. “‘Cause if that was me, I wouldn’t bother reading them, wouldn’t wanna make myself feel shit in that way, by going out of my way to purposely do something I know will upset me. It’s almost like you want to hurt yourself.”

Harry sits up straight in his chair, folds his book and pen up and places them on the chair beside him, and looks out the window with eyes that don’t stay still. “You don’t really know anything, not about me. Don’t make assumptions.”

“Yeah, you say that,” Zayn says and leaves it with a shrug.

“Is it wrong for me to want to read the criticism people offer me?” Harry asks.

“No, I didn’t say it was.”

“Right. So, we’ll leave it at that.”

Zayn frustratedly sighs and pulls his phone out, sending Niall a quick text to ask how things are, so he can find the calm in the thought of home—but also so he doesn’t have to look at Harry and face the awkwardness between them. He doesn’t get a response, and he tucks his phone back away before getting into a comfortable position, head leant against the window, and closes his eyes. Harry’s hums fill his ears and drift him off to sleep, and he slips in and out of dreams, being woken up by judders in the carriages or one of their phone’s buzzing, until Harry wakes him up for good, and they grab all their bags and move to the next train and find a new compartment.  

Zayn frowns. “It’s just dawned on me that I don’t have a ticket.  And I didn’t have a ticket for the last train, either.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly supposed to come with me,” Harry says.

“So, I’m just free-riding on a train where I’m supposed to have a ticket?”

“Yep.”

“What are we gonna do if someone comes ‘round for the tickets?”

“They most likely won’t. They only really do that in films. But, if they do, I can just pay for a ticket here, it’s fine.”

Zayn straightens his back. “I can pay for it.”

Harry takes in a breath. “I’m sure you could, but I have more money than I know what to do with, and I know you’ve lost a lot of money on this trip, so… it’s the least I could do for being a whiny, little twat.”

“Thanks. That’s, uh, kind of you,” Zayn mumbles, and Harry nods. “Did you get any more writing done?”

“A bit. But the thoughts were stuck, like they were congested or something, so I didn’t write as much as I’d like to,” Harry says.

He nods. “I know what that’s like.”

“You do?” Harry asks, before the realisation settles in. “Right, journalist. I forgot.”

Zayn breaths out a laugh. “You forgot?”

“Yeah.” Harry chews on his lips and taps his fingers on the frame of the window. “I forget, you know, in those short moments, that you’re a journalist that said these things about me,” he says. “I forget you live that life and I just see you more as… a person.”

“Well, I am a person, Harry,” he jokes.

But Harry’s face remains indifferent. “I know. So am I.”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek; a nervous habit. “Yeah. Guess I’m starting to see that more now. Now that I’m spending more time with you. It’s easy to forget, though. Like, sometimes I’ll look over to you and for a second I’m just like ‘fuck, it’s Harry Styles’, and then I remember,” he explains, and when Harry smirks, he reiterates, “I mean, like, not as in I look over and I see it’s you and I swoon or anything, it just sinks in that I’m travelling the country with a celebrity and I didn’t think it’d ever happen. And it definitely was not on the list of impossible’s I’m hoping become possible.”

“You have a list of impossible’s that you hope are going to become possible?” Harry asks, and he looks so cocky, almost endearing for a moment, that Zayn has to swallow the lump in his throat so he can get the words out. “What’s on this list, then?”

“You know, just…” Zayn gestures his hands. “Just things, like, mostly dad things.”

“Like what?” Harry encourages, leaning forward.

Zayn pauses for a moment, trepid. “You know, just things like, wishing my son doesn’t ever grow up so I can be his daddy forever, or wishing I could fly, or wishing my family never died so I don’t have to lose them,” he says, and Harry has the smallest smile on his lips that Zayn finds on his own. “They’re daft now that I say them, but…”

“It’s not,” Harry says. “It’s cute, almost.”

Zayn quirks a brow. “Cute?”

“Yeah. To see you so caring about your family. It’s envious, almost, for me,” he says.

“You don’t have a good relationship with your family?” Zayn asks.

Harry sits back and suspires. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t. It’s horrendously complicated and I’m not going to go into it, but they just, they didn’t like the lifestyle I was living and didn’t want to get dragged into it. So, I haven’t had any communication with them for years.”

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to not have communication with my family. Well, I mean, I do understand it almost, but it’s not the same.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

Zayn stares at him before shaking his head, cheeks threatening to burn pink on the skin. “Nothing, I said too much,” he says, pausing, before adding, “It’s just, uhm… I was adopted. I am adopted.”

“Oh,” is all Harry says.

Zayn puckers his lips. “Yeah. And, I mean, I have a family and they’re so loving and they’ve always provided the best they could for me and they’re there for me, but I didn’t have any communication with my birth family until I was nineteen, so I went a lot of my life not knowing who they were. And it’s different, you know, knowing your birth family to your adoptive family. It’s just different. I don’t know how to explain it, I don’t even know that you can, but it’s different. It’s almost like, in a way, you can’t distinguish them, because you have a birth family and you know they’re there and they exist, but all you’ve ever known is your adoptive family, and they feel like you’re real, true, birth family ‘cause you’ve been there from when you were born, but they’re not, and it’s…” Zayn pauses, and although Harry is listening intently, like he wants to hear what he has to say, Zayn gets all flustered and hot and red-cheeked, and he nervously laughs. “I’m rambling.”

“It’s okay, it’s actually nice to hear you talk,” Harry says. “But, I don’t, I won’t, ever really understand how that feels, but it seems like that’s something that would be really emotionally confusing to handle.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “it was, especially at that age; I was fifteen when I found out, going through puberty.”

“I was a nightmare at that age. To my parent’s and to myself and to my school.” Harry shakes his head, a glint of reminisce catching in the light as the sun glimmers into the compartment. “I couldn’t imagine it.”

“Sometimes, I think I have, think I thought the whole thing up. But it all comes flooding back, especially now… being here, going to Russia.” Zayn runs his fingers together and follows them as they intertwine. “It’s almost like life doesn’t want me to forget.”

“The funeral is for one of your family members?” Harry surmises.

It confuses Zayn, how sensitive Harry seems to be about the topic, about how thoughtful he is because he knows it’s a touchy one, because since now Harry hasn’t shown a hesitation to insult Zayn whenever he feels like it, and now seems like the perfect chance. It makes him wonder, re-frames the picture in his mind—slanting it to the side so it’s out of place—until he’s looking at it at a slightly different angle so it can make sense. And his guards, tense and encumbered, stay calm.

“For my father. My biological father, who’s from Russia. Well, he’s not from Russia, he moved there when he was young. He’s from Pakistan, originally, and so is my adoptive dad, which sort of made it a little less confusing for me when I was younger, being surrounded by a family that are, you know, like me,” Zayn says, and he’s not sure why he does; why he explains something so personal that he knows Harry has no business knowing, but it’s like his tongue knows that Harry is the only person he has to talk to as they travel across the globe and it works before Zayn can tell it _not_ to. “I think that’s why they adopted me, actually.”

“Because you’re… Pakistani?”

“Yeah, well, my mum and dad already had a child, my sister, and they had two other kids after me that they planned, so it’d look a bit weird if they just had one white kid,” Zayn jokes. “Guess, I was lucky they came to Russia, in that sense.”

Harry grins, but there’s something about it that looks pitiful, or guilty; Zayn isn’t sure, but he looks down at his fingers instead of up at Harry’s face because of it.

“Why did your parents… you know?”

“Get rid of me?” Zayn shakes his head. “I was taken away from them. Neglect, I think. They’re a poor family, always have been. They’ve always refused any of my help. Stubborn lot.”

“Well, I’m sorry about your father,” Harry says, his eyes genuine and his mouth flat with a glance of sympathy.

“S’alright,” Zayn says. “I didn’t really know him that well. He was cantankerous and old-headed, he didn’t really connect with me. Not like Ekaterina.”

“Who?”

“My mother. My biological mother.”

“Oh.”

“She’s, uh… she’s a strange one, too. Temperamental, and stern. I’m still unsure sometimes if she likes me. And I have a sister, but I’ve never spoken to her. She’s never wanted contact,” Zayn says, and Harry nods his head along but stays silent. “So, that’s my family history.”

It falls quiet between them, though their eyes remain on one another, and Zayn senses the slightest shiver of goose bumps up his neck as Harry stares at him, pensive and poker-faced. He wipes the sweat off from the humidity of the moment on the fabric of his jeans and leans back. Harry follows, and they seem to imitate each other as the moment sinks in, as they simultaneously realise that maybe, for the first time, they actually see each other for more than who they are.

“Christmas,” is all Harry says, his voice disturbing the dust in the air as it settles in the light and revokes their quiet.

Zayn frowns. “What?”

“Christmas, 2013. That’s when I fucked it up.”

Harry’s eyes blink and blink, staring out the window into the blurry void of Luxembourg, and his fist becomes tight over the edge of the chair, his lips a mere blank to the pink they were before they became tooth-trodden.

Zayn lets him have a moment before asking, “What happened?”

“I, uh… I went home for Christmas, back to England, I was living in LA at the time. I was…” Harry scoffs out this laugh that’s more nervous than funny. “I was shit-faced, I was so drunk, high off my arse on something, I couldn’t remember what. I’d been to a Christmas Eve party the night before—not even the night before, hours before I got on the plane to go to the UK. I’d had a few hours to sober up, but it wasn’t any good. When I get that smashed, it takes me days to recover fully. And I show up at home, off my face, and I start shit, don’t I? Start causing arguments that don’t need to happen because the drugs always make me a cunt.

“I hit him, my step dad, gave him a right black eye, fractured his eye socket with my ring. He stepped in after I got up in my sister’s face and scared her. I flipped the dinner table over, and smashed things around the house, and kicked holes in the doors. The look on my mum’s face…” Harry shakes his head. His eyes are glossy and greener than they’ve ever been in the sun. “You’d think that being estranged from your family, getting to the point where they can’t take your shit anymore—not that they won’t, but they _can’t_ —would be motivation for me to get better. But, it only made me sink into a deeper hole of drugs and partying and just forgetting. I got drugs, not hugs,” he sardonically jokes, and there’s a hint of a smile before it trickles away.

Zayn pinches his lips. “D’you think, maybe, now that you’re getting clean—”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, interrupts—like the thought of hearing it hurts him enough that he can’t get to the end. “I’ve tried to ring before, but I’ve never been able to get through. They just let it ring out.”

“Have you tried ringing since you’ve been sober?” Zayn asks. “Nearly sober.”

“No.”

There’s a look on Harry’s face that the sun catches for just a glint of a moment that makes him look like a lost child, that makes Zayn’s fatherly instinct perk, and despite who he thinks Harry is, what he’s done, how he’s acted, the empathy kicks in like a shot of tequila at the bar: into his mouth and down his throat with a bitter swallow, unfamiliarly warm in the pit of his stomach. He knocks his shoe with Harry’s to make him look over, and he gives him the best smile he can.

“Don’t make—keep this to yourself, yeah? Don’t put it in a post or an article, or something, please,” Harry requests, a soft and reserved voice on the edge of a beg. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, of all people, but please just keep this between us.”

“Why would you think—” Zayn begins, but pauses when he’s noticed his mistake. Harry gives him a look, and Zayn takes it, knowing Harry is right. “I won’t, don’t worry.”

“Aren’t you worried about me telling people about your family?”

“Why would I be? You’ve basically just told me you don’t have any friends,” Zayn says, and Harry’s brows become insulted. “And I’m not ashamed of my family, or my past. You can tell as many people as you want, I don’t care. I’ve got nothing to hide, my friends already know.”

“Does Jude know? That you’re adopted.”

Zayn narrows his eyes and cocks his head. “No, he doesn’t. He’s too young to understand what it means, I’ll tell him when he’s older. But if you even think about telling him—”

“No, no, that’s not—that’s not what I was getting at, I was just curious,” Harry defends. “I wouldn’t do that to him, or to you. You don’t think me that low, do you?”

Zayn shrugs. “You’ve made it clear that I don’t know you.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Zayn. I wouldn’t hurt a family like that.”

“Really? Because I recall you trying to get me fired,” Zayn reminds.

They dwell in the silence that Harry leaves behind, his eyes shuffling over to the window, down to the frayed fabric of the rip in his jeans, and to the clock on his wrist.

“We’re almost there,” he says in a reserved voice. “I’ve got a car waiting at a garage about five minutes away from the train station. I hope you don’t mind walking.”

“How long until we’ll be in Germany?”

“We’re in Germany, Zayn.”

“Are we?”

Harry laughs. “Yes.”

“Oh. I’ve never been to Germany.”

“I’ve been here a few times, touring and that. I’ve played the Lanxess arena a few times,” he says. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“Well, how long is it to the hotel?”

“Uh”—Harry pauses for a second and counts on his fingers – “Nine hours, maybe. Ten, if you want to calculate the traffic.”

Zayn groans and slumps back into the seat. “I’m already tired and fed up. And hungry, and thirsty.”

“We’ll grab some food and drink from somewhere,” Harry says. “Get enough for the rest of the day, so we don’t have to stop again. Not unless it’s a piss break.”

“Honestly, I’ll just piss into a bottle if it helps us get there faster,” Zayn admits, and Harry grimaces. “Don’t say you’ve never done it when you’re not desperate.”

“I don’t really want you pissing in my car, in case you miss.”

“I won’t miss, I have great aim.” Zayn watches this smirk tickle the edge of Harry’s lips, and his own fall open. “I didn’t mean it like that, you dirty twat.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Yeah, well, get your mind out of the gutter,” he censures, but a smile breaks out onto his lips that forms into a chuckle, and Harry follows him.

The train slows, and the view outside falls into a comprehensive picture. They stand and grab their bags, Harry stealing one of Zayn’s away from him and telling him not to worry about it, walking in front of him and out of the carriage before Zayn has time to thank him. He’s glad he’s got one less bag to worry about as he steps outside and feels the heat on his skin, senses the sweat already forming on his forehead. He walks behind Harry, his suitcase behind him, his other bag on top of Harry’s back, and they keep a steady and desperate pace to the garage, so they can get out of the sun as fast as they can.

He’s not sure where they’re going, and he hates that he has to put his full trust in Harry to not get them lost, and he takes deep, anxious breaths until they turn the last corner and a shiny, black Benz is parked ready beside the curb, and Zayn knows it’s far too expensive of a car just to be sat there for it not to be Harry’s, and he sighs, relieved.

Zayn packs the bags in the boot; Harry settles in the car. The AC is already blasting out by the time he gets in, and whilst the air blowing out is still mildly warm, it feels like ice on the heat of their skin. He doesn’t know how long they sit there, the tinted windows up on the side of the street, the whole world blocked out as they lay back in their seats, but by the time Harry starts the ignition, Zayn has to sit up to oppose a dream.

“Right,” Harry says, “to Dortmund.”

“Have you got your journal?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag. And there should be a map in the side compartment,” Harry says. “I think there’s a restaurant not too far from here, so I can stop and get us something. Some water.”

Zayn lets out an opposed grunt. “I saw a McDonald’s a few minutes back that way, let’s just go there. I want a McFlurry.”

“I can’t eat there,” Harry complains. “It’s McDirty.”

“I don’t McFuckingCare, I want ice cream, smartie ice cream. So, stop being a McSnob and go to McDonald’s,” Zayn says, and Harry flips him off. “Have you ever tried one?”

“A McFlurry? Yeah, when I was younger. I used to eat it all the time.”

“Well, just pretend you’re still a kid without all the fame and unnecessary millions,” Zayn says, and nudges Harry’s arm. “C’mon, you’ll like it.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

  

\+ + + +

 

“So, does Jude go to school?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. He’s in Reception.”

“Right. My niece is in Reception, or year one, I can’t remember. I just remember she’s five.”

“If she’s five, she’ll start Reception in September,” Zayn says. “The school year ends on Friday for primary schools, so in a few days.”

“Oh, right.”

Zayn glances out at the sky, it’s clear blue decadence being superimposed by the dawn, the summits of the buildings and the houses they drive past being painted in a nectarine-golden glow as the sun sets behind them. There’s a shadow through the streets that keeps the car cool now, makes a shrill of goose-bumps form on their skin as the breeze whisks through the half-open windows, the AC turned off an hour ago; and although there’s no sight of it yet, no cloud in the sky, Zayn can already smell the rain in the muggy air and the pre-dampened tarmac. Harry tells him it’s ten-to-ten, but he’s figured out that Harry’s clock is five minutes early, and he doesn’t know if Harry knows but Zayn doesn’t bother correcting him at his own amusement and just reminds himself to minus the five minutes to the time.

“I’ve never seen her, you know.”

Zayn looks over to him. “What?”

“My niece, I’ve never seen her,” he repeats. “I fell out with my family just before they found out my sister was pregnant, and they’ve never allowed me to see her.”

“Oh,” is all Zayn says. “I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t have any niece’s or nephew’s like that, I’m the only one of my siblings who has a child, but if I did, it would break my heart to know I couldn’t be a part of their life." 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, nodding along idly.

He frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to rub it in, or anything.”

“No, no, you’re fine. I agree with you.” He swallows. “She’s going to be at the wedding—my niece, and my sister.”

Zayn’s brows perk. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t seen her in…”

“Five and a half years.”

“And I assume you’re… nervous about it?”

“Nervous?” Harry scoffs. “I’m shitting myself about it. I don’t know what I’ll do when I see them. Her boyfriend is going to be there, and I know he doesn’t like me, and I can’t say I’m particularly fond of him, either. I don’t know what I’ll say to them when I see them,” he tells. “We’ll just see how it goes, I suppose.”

Zayn plays with his tongue, his lips, for a second. “I really don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Harry assures. “I just wanted to tell someone.”

“I’m uh,” he begins, but pauses as the inclination on his tongue tastes foreign and unwelcome. “I’m sure that it’ll go okay. And, I mean, you’re clean now, or trying to be, and that’s a step, right? Like, they’ll see that you’re trying.”

Harry glances over at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of course, absolutely. And if they don’t… well, it’s a long process, reconciliation. But if you want it enough, you’ll get there.”

“I do, I really want it. I know my sister is the place to start. If I can crack her, the rest of the family will open their arms,” Harry says, before he reiterates, “I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just mean, like, my sister has always been the hardest, most stubborn of the family, so if I can sway her to see, then… you know.”

“I know what you meant, Harry, don’t worry.” Zayn laughs.

“I just don’t want you to think that I don’t care about my family, or that I take advantage of them.”

Zayn looks over, but Harry avoids his eyes, staring out at the road instead. The first patters of the rain land on the window pane of the car, and he looks up to the sky to find it all cloudy and dull, and a draft of cold air sweeps in from the change in the temperature, and Zayn shudders. There’s this Shawn Mendes song playing on the radio in a low lull that he’s heard before—the one Niall jokes sounds like an Ed Sheeran song—and he swallows the tempo as it vibrates through the car.

“I don’t think that,” Zayn says after a cumbersome pause. “I don’t think that at all.”

“Okay.” He clicks the window-wipers on. “I think we’re about twenty minutes from the hotel.”  

“Are we ahead of schedule? We’ll be there early.”

“Yeah, there wasn’t as much traffic as I thought they’d be, so we’ll get there soon. Well, the GPS says it’s about twenty minutes away, but I don’t know how accurate that is.”

It’s still raining by the time they get to the hotel, pouring it down so hard that by the time they get the bags and enter the hotel their hair and shirts are soaked. They pause in the foyer whilst Harry checks in, pulling off his jacket and draping it over his bag, and Zayn has to stop himself from looking over to the wet fabric of Harry’s white shirt that meshes to the frames of his abs before Harry catches him.

The hotel room is bigger than the last, but somehow it looks cheaper. There’s peeling patterned paper on the walls and the yellowed paint chips away in the corners, the stains on the floor pathetically covered by musk-smelling rugs, and there’s a disastrous gyration of stale cigarettes and de-odouriser in the air that tickles the back of Zayn’s throat. He runs his hand over the chest of drawers beside the door and pulls away with dust over his fingers and a bubble of indignation on his lips.

“I need to wash my hands,” Zayn says. “I feel dirty.”

“This is a shit-tip,” Harry almost cries. He bursts the French doors open and lets the cool air blow in, the canopy keeping the rain away. “Well, at least there’s a decent fucking set of chairs outside, thank God for that, ay?”

Zayn laughs and bends down to take the bleach out of his bag to clean the taps in the small kitchen area. “This is a bit low, even for my standards. I’m surprised you went for this hotel.”

“It had a four-star rating online, I thought it’d be alright,” he says. “Do you know how much this room cost me? Three hundred euros. That’s, like, £250.”

“Well, it is in the capital, Harry. It’s like being in London, nearly everything is overpriced or extorted,” he says as if it’s obvious, washing the bleach off the taps with half a bottle of water and pumping some soap into his hands.

Harry strips his wet shirt off and drops it on his bag. “I should go complain, get a better room or something. Better yet, get a refund and go to a better hotel.”

“Don’t, Harry, we don’t need to.”

“Zayn, the room is disgusting. I wouldn’t even let you sleep in here.”

“Oh, I’m charmed.” Zayn huffs. “Well, first of all, there’d be no guarantee that we’d find another hotel with a spare room this late at night, and if you go downstairs shouting up a storm and they kick us out, what are we going to do?”

Harry shrugs. “We’ll sleep in the car.”

“It’s hot. It doesn’t even get lower than 25 degrees in the car at the coolest part of the night. We’re better off in here.” Zayn nods his head to the corner of the room. “Look, there’s even a fan.”

“I’m not sleeping in the bed, God knows if the sheets have been changed.” He grimaces. “Even I feel squirmish touching this shit, I don’t know how you’re feeling with your OCD.”

Zayn turns around to hide his smile. “I’m handling it. I have a spare sheet in my bag if you want me to change it.”

“I think the chair outside reclines, so I might just sleep there. And there’s two chairs out there, you can join me if you want to,” he offers.

“Yeah, I might do.”

Harry comes over and checks the fridge. He pulls out two bottles of Heineken, popping the lid off his and leaving the other on the side for Zayn. “Something good about the room, at least.”

“Don’t you have to pay extra for using the drinks in the fridge?”

“Well, I’m not, I already wasted enough money on the room.”

Zayn dries his hands and grabs the sheet from his bag before joining Harry on the balcony. He lays the sheet down on the chair, makes sure the handles and the back of the chair where his head is going to be is covered, and sits down. Harry watches him with a quirked brow.

“I have OCD, remember?” Zayn says.

“No, I know,” he replies softly. “I was just wondering what the extent of the OCD is.”

“Well,” Zayn begins, getting comfy and taking a deep breath, “it stemmed from a contamination anxiety I had when I was younger. And I just, sort of, went too long without getting help and it manifested into more.”

“What is that—contamination anxiety?” Harry asks, eyes curious, and he leans in further, like he’ll be able to understand more the closer he is. “Is it like social anxiety? I get that, sometimes.”

“In that way, yeah, it is. It’s a type of anxiety that can cause isolation or fear, depression, that kind of stuff. But, basically, contamination anxiety is the fear that the things you touch are going to hurt you, like, in an illness type of way. It’s pretty much just a hyper-conscious awareness you have of dirt and germs and bacteria and that stuff,” Zayn explains. “I’ve had it since I was about 14, but looking back it was there as a kid, too.”

“Oh, right.” Harry nods along. “So, things like public spaces are difficult for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely. There was a point of my life where I wouldn’t leave the house ‘cause I was worried about everything. Like, _everything_. I dropped out of school ‘cause I couldn’t cope with the environment. And one day at school, this kid almost threw up on me.” Zayn shivers. “I don’t think I ate for days after.”

Zayn gulps down his beer to try and rid of the tickle in the back of his throat just thinking about it. His foot begins a pattern on the balcony floor, and his eyes are far and wide and back again, blinking in and out of open space.

“And you’re getting anxious talking about it?” Harry guesses. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Zayn shakes his head. “It’s all good. It’s actually nice that someone is interested in learning about it.”

“I want to—to learn more about it, I mean. I wanted to study psychology in college, but then I became a musician,” Harry says.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“There’s plenty of things you don’t know about me.” Harry smiles at him and sips his beer. “So, where did the OCD come into it?”

“Uhm…” Zayn clears his throat and looks out onto the view instead of Harry, zoning in on the sound of the rain to soothe him. “When I was about 15. I started tapping things, like, a certain amount of times, and I stopped eating certain foods ‘cause I thought they’d hurt me. I was living off those little, pre-cut sandwiches at one point, and pasta, and anything that came in a package. And I started using disposable cutlery ‘cause I didn’t like the idea of using the same cutlery as my family that’d been in their mouths, even though it was washed. The same with bowls and plates and cups—I used to use those portable coffee cups to drink out of before I started drinking bottled water.

“And then, you know, I lost weight, a lot of it, ‘cause I just wasn’t eating. I was so afraid of the food, even the water, that I didn’t want to put it in my mouth, and when I did I felt like I was dirty or choking or, you know. And then the depression ‘cause I wasn’t eating, and…” Zayn swallows and shrugs. “Yeah.”

“That sounds awful. Like, I know that’s _the most basic and stupid_ thing to say, but…”

“No, I get it,” Zayn reassures. “It _was_ awful. I was just existing. And the whole OCD thing is originally why I became a vegetarian.”

“Because you were worried it wasn’t going to be cooked?” he surmises.

Zayn nods. “But, with something like vegetarianism, the longer you go the more it becomes an ethical thing, so I don’t just, like, not eat animals now ‘cause I’m worried about it, I just don’t wanna hurt the animals, y’know?”

“And you got help, yeah?” Harry asks.

Zayn can’t help the smile on his face at Harry’s concerned voice, though his chest feels like it’s in a knot and he can’t take a deep breath long enough to satisfy his lungs, despite the cool breeze outside. It’s strange, really, to see how wide Harry’s eyes become, how far-stepped into the conversation he is, for Zayn to have the full attention of someone like Harry Styles. For the first time on the trip, perhaps the most genuine time, one that he feels deep in the pull of his heart to be true, Zayn thinks that, maybe, what he wrote was wrong.

Most of it.

“Yeah, I did.” Zayn gestures his hands. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Right.” Harry pauses for a second, playing with his cheeks. “Well, it, sort of, pains me to say it, and don’t bring this up after tonight, but I’m glad you’re here. I think I was worried I was going to go insane being alone for this long,” he confesses. “I’m usually in a bustle of people, management, stylists, work environments. The silence scares me, sometimes.” He watches the rain for a few minutes, Zayn letting him have the silence, until he sighs. “Sometimes, it feels like people are moving without me. I know I’m always achieving things and that, but…” He shakes his head. “It sounds stupid.”

“I think that was one of the most difficult things for me, sometimes,” Zayn says, his tone as soft as butter that would melt under the evening heat. “Watching my sister’s grow up and my friends carry on with school, when I dropped out and I wasn’t a part of their lives anymore. Feeling like everyone is moving forward but you’re stuck in the same place. Like your feet are cemented to the ground, or summat. Especially when I’d see my family doing stuff together and I couldn’t join in—even ridiculous things like having a family meal or getting a hug. Suppose, that’s why mental illnesses can feel so debilitating.”

“I think you’re, uhm…” Zayn looks over to see the trepidation on his face, in his throat as he swallows and meets Zayn’s eyes. “I think you’re really brave. I don’t know whether anyone has told you that before. But, from what you’ve told me, and I’m sure you haven’t told me the half of it, only someone really strong could get through something like that.”

Zayn frowns; in an endeared and pensive way—like the gratitude and the forgiveness he feels in his chest makes him grimace or present in the opposite way because it feels so alien to him.

“Thank you, Harry,” he says earnestly. “People have told me that before, my family and that, but thanks. It means something different coming from you, I guess.” They sit in the silence for a thrice before the dawn turns into a suspicious consternation on Zayn’s face. “Is this your way of showing me you’re not the person I think you are?”

Harry grins, and he looks so youthful, so un-Harry, so normal, that the authenticity becomes him, and his eyes shine in the low dawn. “Unintentionally. I meant what I said.”

“I know you did.”

Zayn gives him the one over and begins to laugh; wide-mouthed and head thrown back and eyes shining. Harry follows, though the confusion is clear.

“What are you laughing about?” Harry asks.

“You look so common and working class it’s hilarious.”

The smile falls from Harry’s lips. “Oh, _ha-ha_.”

“No, honestly, it’s funny. Sat in this shitty hotel room, no shirt, a cheap beer, talking about common-people issues, with common, working class me who lives in a three-bedroom council house.”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean when I said that, Zayn. I was just angry and upset. I don’t have anything against working class people, me and my family were once. I was just being…”

“An ignorant dickhead.”

Harry pierces his lips. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“I think that’s the first actual apology you’ve given me.”

“Well, I mean it,” he says, blinking. “Maybe, you could, you know, shoot one back at me for saying ‘ _I brag about the women I have sex with like they’re pieces of meat’_.”

Zayn hums. “Maybe later.”

Harry laughs. “Suppose this is better than arguing.”

“Yeah, suppose it is.” Zayn smirks over at him. “I’ll forgive you if you get me another beer.”

Harry stands to his feet with a victorious a-ha. “Sold.”

 

\+ + + +

 

Zayn never questioned how strange it was to wake up in bed next to Harry the morning before, in the big-enough-for-more than two hotel room in France, how he hadn’t sunk into the discomfort of the fold-out settee Zayn had spent the time laying out for him, but this morning, as he opens his eyes and finds their legs intertwined and Harry’s arm across Zayn’s waist, he has to question it, because how did this happen?

He pushes Harry’s arm off him and prods at his chest to wake him up.

“Harry,” he groans, voice croaky and full of morning. He wipes the layer of sweat off his forehead, and when Harry doesn’t respond he slaps him gently on the cheek. “Harry.”

Harry groans and rolls over. “Fuck off.”

“We’ve got to get up.” Zayn checks the time on his phone. “Its 9am. Aren’t we behind schedule?”

Harry slowly sits up and rubs his eyes. He looks around the sheets, to Zayn, and back again with a grimace, and Zayn doesn’t know whether it’s because they decided to fall into bed after too many beers and too late of a night, or Harry knows they were hugging in their sleep, too, but he lets it be and stands from the bed, distancing himself before things can get awkward.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” Zayn says, grabbing the clothes out of his suitcase, the bleach, and his slippers. “You can go down and see if they do breakfast or summat, if you want.”

“I’m not eating anything from here,” Harry protests. “We’ll just grab something at McDonald’s on the way through.”

Zayn smirks at him. “I thought McDonalds was for McCommoners.”

“Well, I want a McMuffin, one of those sausage and egg ones,” he says. “You’ve given me a taste for the first time in twelve years and I want more.”

“Has anyone told you, you have a really addictive personality?”

“No one needs to tell me that, mate. I snorted coke for six years.”

Zayn clears his throat, tracing the stains in the carpet with his eyes. “Right.” He points to the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower. Are you gonna get in after me?”

“Yeah. At least I know it’ll be clean.” He smiles lazily at Zayn.

Zayn spends twenty minutes cleaning the shower and the sink and the taps, and another fifteen doing his usual morning routine: he brushes his teeth, counts to two minutes exactly and waits till the next count of ten when he goes over the time; he washes his face in the shower, his neck, his body, his arms, and all the way down in order to his feet; and when he steps out onto the towel on the floor, he makes sure his feet are perfectly dry and bit-free before he steps into his slippers.

Harry is waiting on the balcony, his clothes and toothbrush in his hand when Zayn walks out of the bathroom. He stands there for a moment, two, admiring the sinewy lineation’s of Harry’s bare back, his legs, his arse covered in the short fabric of his black boxers, before he clears his throat and makes sure he turns the other way as Harry looks over.

“I left the shower on. And I left my towel on the side of the sink in case you wanted to use it—it’s damp, but it should be fine to use. It’s the only one that didn’t have any stains on it or anything in the airing cupboard,” Zayn says.

“I’ll go with your judgement, cheers.” Harry grins. “Did you have the water on hot?”

Zayn frowns. “No, why?”

“Your face just looks really red, but wet, like you’ve held it under the hot water.”

“Oh,” Zayn mumbles and looks away with a smile. “No, I’m just—I’m just warm.”

“Right. Good choice with the shorts, though.” Harry points down to the knee-length blue shorts Zayn has on. “I might cut my jeans into shorts, it’s too warm.”

“I bet they’re, like, really expensive, though.”

“I have a bunch of the same jeans, it’ll be fine.” Harry shrugs. “I’m not gonna be long, we’re already behind schedule. Are you going to be ready when I get out?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I’ll put the bags by the door.”

Harry gives him a thumbs up and disappears behind the bathroom door. Zayn packs his stuff away and tidies up the small mess they’ve made, shuts the balcony doors, and Harry is dressed and ready to go as Zayn picks up his bags.

“You were quick.”

“Yeah, I told you I was going to be.”

“Don’t you want to dry your hair?” Zayn asks. “I think I saw a hairdryer in the airing cupboard.”

“No, it’ll keep me cool.” Harry holds the door open for Zayn and picks up his bags. “On the road again.”

Zayn’s stomach feels in knots by the time they reach the foyer. It’s the small talk, he thinks, how it feels so unnatural but, sort of, okay; how he waits for Harry to snap at any comment because he’s seen the way he’s is on edge—in inconsequential notions, like the twitching of his nose, or the restless hands, or trouble falling to sleep the night before as Zayn felt him toss and turn until early in the morning. He knows it’s only a certain amount of time before something happens; a burst, or a ball, or some sort of argument that’ll re-ignite the tension between them that’s seemed to slip away in the night.

Harry hands him the McDonald’s bag after grabbing his muffin.

Zayn tips a sachet of sugar into his and Harry’s coffee and stirs it around. “Y’know, we could eat on the road, we’d save time.”

“It’s dangerous. Plus, I’m still sort of asleep and my head hurts, I want to have full attention on the road,” Harry mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Right.”

“Are you sure you didn’t want any food?”

Zayn holds his Mcflurry up with knitted brows.

“No, I mean, like, actual food. Something that will fill you up until lunchtime or something.”

“It’s too warm for anything but ice cream,” Zayn says, chuckling. “Jude would kill me if he knew I was eating ice cream without him. It’s our favourite food, especially on film nights. When we go the cinema, he has to get one of those small tubs of Ben & Jerry’s, either the cookie dough or the phish food one. _Has to_ , otherwise he just pesters me the whole time, little sod.”

“They’re, like, _the best flavours_.”

“Yeah, if you’re a four-year old,” Zayn teases.

“Well, what’s your favourite flavour?”

Zayn hums. “I like the Karamel Sutra one, but it’s too sickly most of the time. I think I’m just a plain vanilla type of guy,” he says, and he rolls his eyes at the grin he sees from the corner of his eye. “Not like that.”

“Are you, though?” Harry asks. “More of a vanilla type person?”

Zayn pops the lid off his McFlurry and focuses on stirring the smarties into the ice cream. “That’s not of your business, really.”

“I think you are.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

Harry shrugs. “Well, you said you like to feel an emotional connection with someone you sleep with, and, well, yeah, you look like that type. The really emotional type of guy that likes to sleep in the same bed after and have breakfast together the morning after.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows and pulls his head back, but he stays silent; and he doesn’t really know why he does that because he knows staying silent says more than protesting, shows Harry how he hit the nail on the head more than Zayn would like to let on, but he does. He stays quiet, because he hasn’t quite figured out how to speak to Harry yet, doesn’t know whether this is just casual conversation for him or a goading into an unnecessary argument.

“So, I’m right?” Harry arrogantly says.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong, does it?” Zayn says. “Because, like I said, it’s not any of your business.”

“I’m just—I’m not poking fun or anything, I’m just getting to know you better.”

“And you do that by asking about my sexual disposition?”

“Uhm, well, I usually find that out by fucking people, usually when I first meet them, so I think I’m doing pretty good so far,” he says. He throws the wrapper of his food into the bag Zayn placed on the floor. “It’s just curiosity, mate.”

“Is there an issue with me not, y’know, wanting to fuck all the people I think’s pretty and never seeing them again?” Zayn asks, and he can’t keep the trickle of spite from his voice, though he wills it to not be there.

Harry stays quiet for a moment before he takes a breath. “No. In fact, your way is probably better. Boring, but better. But, if you’re worried about my sexual hygiene, I’m all clean.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that.” Zayn’s lips furrow in distaste. “But thanks for the info.”

“Maybe you could put that into an article,” Harry suggests. “That was a—I was kidding, by the way.”

“I know, Harry.” Zayn laughs under his breath. “Maybe we should, uhm, get on the road now, though. Otherwise, we’re gonna be even more behind.”

“Right.” Harry starts the car engine and pulls out of the car park.

“Where are we off to, today?”

“You’ll have to check, I’m not sure what the names are. My journal is in the backseat,” Harry says.

Zayn reaches back for the journal and opens the page with the schedule on it. He skims his finger down the line, smiles to himself at the small ticks next to the places they’ve already travelled, and stops at a blue-inked pen scribble.

“Uhm, it says…” Zayn squints his eyes over the ink and leans in. “Gorzów?”

Harry taps the name in on the GPS, glancing to the screen and back to the road in two second intervals, and the directions show up on the screen. “Got it.”

“What does the blue ink mean?”

“Uh, longish journeys. Why, is it in blue?”

“Yeah, it says it’s a two-and-a-half-hour journey, and then we’ll be in Poland,” Zayn says, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a long way from London.”

“We’ve got to go even further.” Harry peers over at the book but goes back to the road. “What’s next after that?”

Zayn lowers his brows in focus. “Gniezno? Sounds Russian.”

“Polish sounds like Russian, sometimes. Well, I think it does.”

“It says we’ll get to a place called… Bialystok by around 8 or 9pm tonight,” Zayn says, frowning. “That’s a long trip, Harry. Do you want me to drive for a bit later? Give you a break, or something.”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry quickly says. “I don’t want you driving the car.”

Zayn scoffs. “I’m not going to crash it or damage it. I know how to drive a car.”

“I’ll take my chances with driving myself, thanks.”

“And then it says car sleep.” He looks to Harry. “We’re sleeping in the car?”

“Well, when the schedule was made, it was made just with me in mind, so I don’t mind sleeping in the car. But, it’ll be cramped in here with us two and you complain about how hot it is, so we can try and find a hotel.”

“It does get hot in the car.”

“I’ll put the AC on.”

“All night? You’ll run the battery out, and then we won’t be able to go anywhere at all.”

“Well… we’ll figure it out when we get there.” Harry huffs and slurps on his coffee. “Don’t look so stressed about it. I’m the one that’s supposed to be stressed, we’re not on schedule.”

“Why aren’t you more stressed?”

“The coffee is helping, I think.”

Zayn sighs and pulls his phone out. “I’m gonna call Jude,” he says. “Though I’ve probably already missed him. It’s his last day at school today and I promised I’d call to wish him a good day.”

“I hope you’re not blaming me for that.”

“No, I’m not blaming you for it,” Zayn snaps.

“Alright,” Harry says defensively. “You just sound mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m just grumpy in the mornings, I told you.”

There’s a message on his lock screen that Zayn didn’t hear the notification from, but it was sent an hour ago—when they were leaving the hotel.

 

_N: little guy’s not goin’ to school today, says he’s not feelin’ well_

 

Zayn’s heartbeat picks up, and he taps the contact and rings it straight away, and the line seems to go on forever, and he counts a beat his foot makes on the floor of the car to the rhythm of the rings. The line stutters, and he sits up straight. “Niall?”

_“Zayn, you alright, mate?”_

“Fine. Is everything alright? I’ve just got your message. Is Jude okay?” 

Harry must sense the alarm in Zayn’s voice as he looks away from the road and over to him. Zayn glances out of the corner of his eye but he leans into the corner of the car for a sense of more privacy.

_“Oh, yeah, mate, he’s fine. He just said he wasn’t feeling very well this morning, but ye mam’s checked him and he’s fine. No temperature, nothin’. And he perked up when I offered him the leftover pizza for breakfast.”_

Zayn relaxes his shoulders. “Okay, good. I was worried then, for a second.”

 _“Nah, he’s sound, mate. Don’t worry about it,”_ Niall says _. “Ye mam thinks he’s just missin’ ya. He said somethin’ the other day about how you always take him for McDonald’s breakfast before school on his last day.”_

He laughs. “We did it last year, and he begs me to do it every half-term now. Obviously, I always give in.”

_“Well, ye mam took him to McDonald’s, and then she said she was gonna take him food shoppin’ with her, to get him out of the house for a bit. And, uh… Queen is coming over today, so she said she’d look after him.”_

“Oh, right. Kicking my own son out of his own house to get a good fuck, huh?” Zayn teases. Harry looks over to him with raised brows, and he smile fades.

_“Ah, fuck off, I’ve told ya, it’s not like that.”_

“I know. As long as Jude is okay.”

_“He’s fine, mate, honestly. If there was a real issue, I woulda called ya.”_

“Yeah, I know. I just worry.”

_“I know ya do, but you really don’t have to. I know it’s not that easy, but…”_

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles. “What time is Queenie coming over?”

_“Uh, noon, I think. We might go out for lunch, or stay and watch somethin’, I don’t know yet.”_

“Alright. Just remember what I said, yeah? No fucking on the kitchen counter. Preferably a floor or your bed. And definitely _not_ on the settee. It’s, like, the most expensive thing in our house, and I don’t want any stains on it.”

_“I’m not gonna fuck him, stop saying that.”_

“I just know how things go sometimes.”

_“Right. Well, I have some class, not a lot of it but some of it, enough of it. I know how to keep it in my pants when I want to.”_

“Also, just keep in mind that he’s my colleague, so anything embarrassing that you do is going to be reflected back on to me, but he will also definitely tell me, and we will definitely talk about it at work.”

_“Good to know there’s no privacy here.”_

“We’ll talk about it, too, when we get back, whatever it is at that point.”

_“Hopefully, somethin’ good, fingers crossed. Where are ya, anyway?”_

“Uh.” Zayn turns his head. “Harry, where are we?”

“We’re heading to Gorzów.”

“Where?”

“Gorzów.”

“Gor—we’re heading to Gorzów, mate,” he says to Niall. “I think we’re still in Germany.”

“We are,” Harry approves.

_“Fuck, that’s a long way away. For you, anyway.”_

“Yeah, I know.”

_“You’ll be back home before you know it, mate. And, if you need me, you know I’ll fly out there to ya, no question.”_

Zayn smiles, and he wishes Niall could see it; he wishes they were both sat on their settee at home, coffee and tea, Jude in between their legs and interrupting the conversations they never seem to have time for lately. He wishes he was back with his family, in the comfort of his home, instead of in this car, the smell of new leather and unfamiliarity making his nose itch, on a strange road, a world away.

“I know, mate, I know.”

_“Good. I’m gonna have to go, though. I gotta get in the shower and tidy up a bit of mess before he gets here, and you know how long it takes for me to do that.”_

“Right. I’ll talk to you later.”

_“Ring me if there’s a problem, or if that arsehole does anythin’ to upset you.”_

Zayn looks over to him, and there’s this meagre smirk tickling the edges of his lips that tells Zayn he’s got the volume up on his phone a little too loud. “I’m sure he’ll be on his best behaviour.”

He slips his phone back into his pocket and grabs his cold coffee from the cup holder.

“Your friend, he’s the protective type, isn’t he?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, yeah, he is. He’s always been that way, really, since we were little. He was always my little brother, my little guardian.”

Harry frowns. “Your little brother?”

“Not—not literally. He’s not blood related, but then again, none of my family are, so…” He shrugs, and Harry shifts in his seat. “I didn’t mean that in an awkward way. I just meant, like, we make our family. It’s not always about blood, it’s just about who loves us and who we love, who we can trust and share our life with, stuff like that,” he explains. “Jude is the only blood family I have like that.”

Harry is quiet for a thrice, eyes glancing back and forth across the road, in the wing mirror, to the side, before he settles on the road again. “I have someone like that, someone I consider family. My friend, Malm, he’s… he’s a good guy, always believed in me, always saw past my bullshit. I see him like a brother, I call him my brother, though I’ve never really had one. Just a sister.”

“That’s cool,” Zayn says, and he tries to make it _not_ sound awkward, but it does. “The dynamic is always different with people like that. It’s almost like you can tell more to someone you think of in that way. Things that, maybe, seem embarrassing to tell your actual family, or anyone else.”  

“And there’s a different sense of comfort. Like, I think I could honestly kill someone and Malm would help me cover it up.”

“Niall is the same, definitely. He reminds me of my mum, sometimes, how he chastises me, like he’s my parent or summat, but I know it’s ‘cause he cares. And he’s very protective of Jude—of us both, but of Jude. I think he sort of sees Jude as his own part-time kid, sometimes, which is fair enough ‘cause he picks him up from school and helps him with his homework when I can’t and cooks dinner when I can’t make it home in time from work, when the long days become even longer,” Zayn tells with a smile. “And by ‘ _cook dinner’_ I mean order fast food that I’ll moan about but eat, anyway.”

Harry chuckles. “He sounds like a good lad.”

“Yeah, he is.” Zayn nods. “Don’t think I’d survive without him, sometimes.”

“He lives with you, then? In your house?”

“Yeah. In our little three-bedroom council house.” Zayn smirks over to Harry, who rolls his eyes half back before going back to the road. “He’s lived with me since we got the house, since Jude was born. He helped me a lot when Jude was younger, when he was a baby, and I was still at uni and in the middle of my internship. Like I said, don’t think I would survive without him. He’s my irritating, little anchor.”

“I, uhm…” Harry pauses to laugh into a short breath—more to himself than anything. “I don’t mean this in an insulting way,” he begins, and Zayn suspiciously hums, “but, I mean, you said your income is good, working where you work, and you said that you had enough money to buy a new house, so I was just wondering, like, in a non-judgmental way… you know, why you live in a house like you do.”

“That was a really long way around just asking me why I live in a shitty council house,” Zayn teases.

“I didn’t say shitty… did I?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “No, you didn’t, Harry, I’m just saying I know that’s what you were thinking.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking at all,” he denies.

“Don’t worry about it, most people think that when they think council house or certain areas. My parents live in a council house, too—have their whole life. It’s just an assumption people have. But it is close-minded, so I’m glad you _weren’t_ thinking that.” Zayn looks to him with a sarcastic countenance.

“I wasn’t. But, you didn’t answer the question."

“Uhm…” Zayn plays with the ring hooked around a chain across his neck that Jude and Niall got him for his 25th birthday (mostly Niall, considering it cost more pocket money than Jude could _ever_ imagine). “Well, I put most of the money left over after bills and food shopping electric, gas, that type of stuff, into a saving’s account for Jude. I usually keep fifty quid or so out of it, so we can do summat as a family, go out for a meal, or new school clothes for Jude, or if the circus is in a town nearby we go there ‘cause Jude loves it. But, the rest of it I save for Jude for when he’s older, so he can get into a good university or start a good career and have something to start him off, y’know? But, in order to do that, we have to live somewhere slightly less expensive in a slightly more integrated neighbourhood.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Zayn makes a noise with his lips. “Did you think I was lying about earning good money, or…? I mean, you heard my boss, I _am_ one of the best writers at the company, I get a good wage.”

“No, no, I just… I had the wrong impression,” he admits. “So, how much do you have saved up for him, for Jude?”

“About twenty grand, I think, give or take a few hundred. That’s what I’ve saved over the last four or five years, or so, and I had a bit saved up before I had Jude that I just deposited straight into the account. And some of that is interest, ‘cause it’s in an IRS.”

“That’s, uhm, that’s impressive,” Harry says, nodding. “And, uh, really sweet.”

“Doesn’t feel sweet, sometimes,” he mumbles. “Working extra shifts when the bills get tight so I can pay them off, put food on the table, _and_ save money. Sometimes, I feel like my bones are gonna fall away.”

“No, I mean it’s sweet that, you know, you’re such a caring dad and you work hard to provide,” Harry says, coughing, almost like the words are too syrupy for his throat. “It’s endearing to see, especially since I had this idea of you in my mind and you’ve, sort of, just, flipped it around on it’s head.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Are you complimenting me?”

“Yeah, suppose I am.”

“Wow. Who knew you could put aside your ego for just one minute to do that. Harry, I’m really honoured.” Zayn jokingly puts his hand over his heart. “Who fuckin’ knew.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry moans, but he’s smiling, and Zayn is, too, and the air between them feels as light as the sun beaming through the windows. “But, really, I mean it. I had you all wrong, I really did. Most of it.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mutters, and kisses the golden maroon-marbled stone on the top of his ring before dropping it back down to his chest. “I’m starting to think I may have got you wrong, too—just a little bit. Just _a little bit_.” He pinches his fingers close together. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Harry scoffs. “You’re a really theatrical person, did you know?”

“I didn’t, but thanks for telling me.”

“I mean, like, you’re gesticulate and, you know what I mean.” Harry waves his arm.

“Yeah, I do. It’s ‘cause I’m a dad.”

“You say that about quite a lot of stuff.”

Zayn laughs. “It’s ‘cause it’s true. Like, Jude is a really practical person, he’s not verbal at all. To get what you mean across, you have to be very wavy-armed and making actions and changing the tone of your voice to convey stuff. And, I guess, I just picked up the habit and never let it drop, even when I’m not around him.”

“Well, you, uhm, you seem like a really good dad,” he says. “I don’t know if I’ve already said that.”

“I think you have, but thanks, anyway.” Zayn smiles to himself, down into his lap so Harry can’t see. “I never thought I’d hear you say a nice word about me after that day in the office, after what I wrote.”

“I was being a bit… brash that day,” Harry admits. “I was—I still am—selfish and stubborn and unreasonable at times. But I’d just read what you wrote, and it was all fresh in my mind and… well, fuck, it hurt.”

Zayn chews on his lip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—you have a sense of indifference when you don’t know someone, and it’s easy to put aside who someone is and how they feel ‘cause you have a bias or an ambiguity towards someone, and you don’t care about changing that,” he says, and it’s sort of an apology but he doesn’t say it. “I guess, I judged you before I knew you, or know you better than I did before and, well, my opinion has changed.”

Harry looks over to him, a cheeky smile playing on his lips. “Does this mean…”

“Haha—no. You’re gonna have to try a bit harder than that. Like, maybe, get me to Russia on time and we’ll see.”

“When _do_ you have to be in Russia?”

“The funeral is on the 26th. I was planning on spending a day or two in Russia with my family, to, maybe, help with the funeral stuff or just spend time with them, but I’m actually glad that I might not get there in time. I just wanna get there and get it over with and go home to my son.”

“Well, we could still make it with some time, but it’s the 21st now and I don’t know how travelling is going to be like, or how on schedule we’re going to be,” Harry says. “I could always stop you at an airport and book a plane for you, if you want.”

“No, no,” Zayn says quickly. “I don’t need to get on a plane, this is fine. I don’t mind travelling with you. Maybe if you go slow enough, I’ll actually miss the funeral and save myself some dried eyes and misery,” he jokes, but neither of them laugh.

“The wedding is on the 27th, and I’ve booked a hotel for the 26th, so we can stay there together if you want. And then, maybe, after the wedding and the funeral, we can work out travelling back and how we’re going to do it,” Harry says.

“Oh, I don’t expect you to, uh, to take me all the way back home,” Zayn says. “I’ll see if I can work it out myself.”

“Zayn, I bet you’re already stressed enough as it is about the funeral _and_ being away from home, you don’t need to add any other stress on top of that. And we’re going the same way, back to London. It only makes sense that we go back together, aswell."

Zayn playfully smirks to hide his appreciation. “What if I don’t want to go all the way back with you? What if you’re too insufferable?”

“Then, I guess you’ll be finding a new home in Russia.”

“Suppose, I’ll just change my name to Yevgeny now, then.”

Harry’s laughs fill the car, this delicate humour on his face that makes him seem so bright, and it’s straight down from his chest, Zayn knows, can feel it in the way the air around them changes, how it becomes so freeing and welcome—almost like it doesn’t belong to them, that they’ve stole it, or won it from some unknown space—and Harry’s face becomes lighter with a touch of a smile. And as their chuckles dwindle down into out-of-breaths and airless laughs, Zayn grins out of the window, out into the world as they pass through fields and trees and empty air, so Harry can’t see his face.

Because, well, it’s not them, and it’s not their dynamic, and they’ll leave it along the path of the German countryside so others might ogle over it as they pass; so that, maybe, when their trip is over, they’ll have one good memory of each other to cling on to past all the shitty strife and upturned soil between them, when they look back and remember these few days—in ways that are perhaps less than they’ll seem through the specs of their rose-tinted glasses.

It’s the daunting reminder of reality that droops the smile on his lips, twists the determined creases above his brows into a frown, and has him habitually fiddling with his fingers, picking at the edges of the skin so they pull up, like he does when he’s anxious or feels out of place in the world.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks.

Zayn glances over but he doesn’t look, just makes sure Harry knows he isn’t being ignored.

“M’fine,” he mumbles. “I’m just having one of those moments.”

“What moment?”

“Y’know, like, when you’re far away from home, or you’re missing someone, or you feel like, I don’t know, you feel like something is out of place but you can’t put it back right ‘cause there’s things left undone, and you, sort of, just don’t know what to do with yourself,” he explains. Zayn pulls his lips to the side. “I think I’m just missing home, s’all.”

“I mean, I’ve gotten used to it, not being at home. Actually, I don’t really have a home, not at the moment,” Harry says, and Zayn smiles sympathetically over to him. “I have a few apartments in the US, and a house in London, but they aren’t homes. I don’t stay there long enough to decorate it or do anything with it to make it a home, with having such a busy schedule, and all. If it’s not touring, I’m living in a studio, or I’m taking a break, or in business meetings, or rehearsing, and it’s just… hectic.”

“I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like, to not have a home. I’ve only ever lived at home, really—apart from my uni dorm. We moved once when I was a kid, and I have my own place now, with Jude and Niall.”

He shrugs. “You get used to the plain walls of hotel rooms. Plus, hotel rooms have some of the comfiest pillows I’ve slept on.”

“Oh, I could do with some good pillows,” Zayn says, groaning. “My neck hurts just thinking about the ones I have at home. I’ve had the same ones since I was about 19.”

“They say you should change your pillows every sixth months,” Harry says. “So, you’re about eight and a half years too late.”

“It’s a dad struggle, I’ll tell ya—a parent struggle, actually. Your needs come last.”

“Right, my parents were the same for us when we were younger, when we didn’t have as much,” Harry says, and he coughs awkwardly, like he’s said more than he wanted to, like he feels too exposed now sat next to Zayn with no way to move further apart. “I forgot to ask you where the funeral is being held? The wedding I’m going to is on the kahzi island, but I’ve booked a hotel in St. Petersburg, and I’ll be travelling to the island on the day of the wedding.”

“Oh, well, the funeral is in St. Petersburg, that’s where my family live—my biological family.”

“Oh, good. Then, you can stay in the hotel with me, if you’d like. And I know it’s gonna be a sensitive time, so if you want privacy I’ll book you your own separate room.”

“Harry, you really don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he interrupts, “but I want to. I know things are difficult for you at the moment, I see that now, and I’m, sort of, feeling awful for being such an asshole to you and I want to make up for it.”

Zayn takes a deep breath. “I—” he begins, goes to protest, but he looks over at Harry, and it’s like Harry knows he isn’t going to agree, with his side-lipped smile and disappointed forehead, and he stops himself. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry face transforms into a satisfaction. “You’re welcome.”

“Why aren’t you just taking a plane, anyway? I’m sure you have your own private jet,” he says.

“Well, like I said, I’m on this road to recovery a bit,” Harry says. “And that means recovering my image, too. But that means staying out of the light, staying out the way of things that will cause too much attention to be attracted towards me. So, my manager thought it’d be a good idea if I made the whole thing a road-trip type of thing, to give them time to do some reconciliation work on my image, but also just a good time for me to be alone and work on things and have a taste of normal life again.” He laughs. “Well, the plan _was_ to be alone.”

Zayn bares his teeth. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t be, I offered to drive you,” he assures. “And, anyway, I don’t have my own private jet. I should, really, but I don’t. And airports are one of the busiest places for me to be, in terms of paps and that, and once the paps release photo’s, fans will find out where I’m going and follow me, and on and on, so it was just best if I avoided those places and did what my manager wanted me to do without complaint for once.”

“For once?” Zayn quirks his brow.

“Well, with little complaint. A few groans here and there.” Harry grins over to him, all dazzling and star-like, and Zayn finds himself looking away quickly. “Why aren’t you on a plane? It’s a much quicker way to get to Russia and back. You could be there and back home in a few days, tops.”

“I don’t like planes, had a bad first experience with one when I was younger and I never got on one again.”

“Oh. What happened?”

“The whole thing was a mess, it gives me a headache just thinking about it,” he says, sighing. “I was going to Ireland with my family, ‘cause my mum has some family up there and we were going to visit them. And it just went wrong from the beginning of the trip. Bags got lost, we nearly missed the flight, and then we got delayed and had to sit on the plane for three hours, and this couple next to us argued nearly the whole time and the woman threw something, I think it was her phone, and it hit me in the head, I had a huge lump there. And then as we were landing we had really bad turbulence and there was smoke coming out of one of the wings, and I could see it right out of the window, and…” He shakes his head. “It just traumatised me. I was so afraid and mentally exhausted, I didn’t get on one again. And I was, like, four or five years old, so the worst age to put an idea into my mind.”

“Was it one of those old Nokia phones? ‘Cause they’re like bricks, mate, no wonder it hurt.”

“Y’know, I think it was. It was, like, 1995 so it’s most likely.”

“God, you’re old,” Harry teases. “Twenty-eight years old, I can’t imagine being that old.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at him. “Harry, you’re three years younger than me. You’re not too far off.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. “Anyway, how do you know how old I am?”

“I did research, remember? Most of the things I searched about you might’ve been ‘false’, but I’m pretty sure Wikipedia isn’t even stupid enough to get your age wrong, let alone every journalist that’s ever wrote about you ever.” He rolls his eyes. “ _Charming 24-year old Harry Styles’_ , _24-year old British pop-star_ , ‘ _24-year old British, world-touring, hipster-dazzler, charming, witty, youthful, best-thing-since-sliced-bread activist Harry Styles’_.” 

“I’m not an activist, who said I’m an activist?” Harry asks, brows low.

“An idiot.”

“I mean, I’m openly supportive, but I wouldn’t call myself an activist, by a long shot.”

“No, neither would I,” he mutters. “That’s like saying I’m an activist ‘cause I don’t eat animals. Doesn’t make me an activist, just means I’m doing something I believe in.”

“I think I like how you know all those headline titles about me, though,” Harry says. “That’s really impressive.”

“They’re just the ones that stuck.” Harry looks to him. “What? They are. I don’t just go ‘round reading articles about you, not unless I want to write about you.”

“Blindly.”

Zayn frowns. “What?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“Where are we, anyway?”

“We’ve only been on the road about an hour, but we’re not too far away from the end of the country.”

Harry turns the radio on and twists the dial to a low level, and Zayn takes that as a sign that the conversation is over, that there’s nothing really left to say. He pulls his phone out whilst Harry taps his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of the band playing on the radio. There’s no messages, no notifications, nothing—not even when he turns his internet on, just in case he’s not getting signal where they are. He sighs and opens up an article that he doesn’t really care about and reads it anyway, because there’s nothing better to do and Harry has occupied himself with his music and his cold coffee, and Zayn doesn’t want to intrude his focus on the road.

Harry begins to hum under his breath. “You like Florence and the Machine?”

“Uhm, I’ve heard some of their stuff, yeah, it’s alright. She’s got a great voice,” Zayn says.

“She’s got an incredible voice. I did a duet with her, with Florence. She completely outshined me on my own record. It was one of the most popular songs off my last album.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. That’s pretty cool, though.”

Harry continues to tap the wheel, though it becomes awkward as the silence consumes them. Zayn locks and unlocks his phone idly, losing the article through a heap of tabs he never shuts, and decides it’s not worth it anyway; that is more fun to try and glance at Harry through the corner of his eye and look away when he’s about to get caught, to hide his smile past the sooth of Harry’s tone—especially when he catches on to the fact Zayn is listening and hums a little louder, adds in a word here and there out of courtesy. And when they come off a motor-way type route and into a stream of more corridor-like streets, and the traffic lights grip Harry’s hands around the clutch and shift the gears, and he grabs for his cup Zayn filled with water when the coffee ran out, his hand is far too close to Zayn’s thigh than it should be, than it’s necessary for it to reach. But it goes unspoken.

“Where are we now?” Zayn asks after an hour goes by.

“I’m not sure,” Harry says. “I know we’re in Poland, but I’m—I don’t know, I’m just following the GPS.”

“Where are we stopping tonight? If you told me, I can’t remember.”

“I think we’re about an hour and a half away from Warsaw.”

“I booked a hotel in Warsaw.”

Harry looks over to him, brows taken between his eyes. “Do you wanna check to see if the booking is still alright?”

“No, it’ll probably be invalid, just like the other places,” Zayn says. “Unless, you want to get rid of me, and that’s why you’re asking.”

“No, no,” he replies quickly. “I just didn’t know whether you wanted to check it, is all. Maybe see if you could get a refund for this one, or that.”

“I think I’ve given up on caring about that, now.” Zayn picks at his water bottle lid. “It’s done, it happened, I’m not gonna trace all the transactions up and go through the technical hassle of getting refunds for all of them. It’s not worth it.”

“Are you sure? It’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. At least it’s come out of my own pocket, though things might be tight at home for a few weeks.”

Zayn looks to Harry, and he sees a glance, this inkling, a suspicion, of undiscovered and curious guilt lingering on the lineation’s of his face; at the edges of his lips, in the whites of his eyes, and the arch of his nostrils as they momentarily flare. It rouses an inquisitiveness inside himself that he can’t quite place, that sits beside the circumference of his heart as it moves and presses against it every time he breaths to remind him that it’s there. He swallows it down, tries to, but the lump still stays past a gulp of water and a calming reminder of home.

“I think I’m gonna sleep for a bit, if that’s okay,” Zayn says.

“Yeah, sure, I don’t blame you.”

“I’m a napper, big time. It helps that I can just fall asleep like that.” He snaps his fingers and turns his body to the side, crossing his arms across his chest and getting his head into a comfortable position. “Just wake me up if I’m asleep for more than two hours, or so.”

“Will do.” Harry nods along. “We can grab some food when you wake up if you want, it should be the right time for dinner.”

Zayn hums but doesn’t say anything, closes his eyes instead and falls asleep to the sound of the radio interweaving with the saccharine tunes of Harry’s voice. He dreams of home, of Jude in his lap and singing along to his favourite Disney film, of Niall sat in the corner with the camera out on his phone and Zayn smiling wide at his heart that bursts with love, and Jude looks backs at him to giggle and fall embarrassed into his arms when he realises he’s being recorded, and they all laugh before falling back into the continuity of quiet family picture.

He wakes up with a smile on his face, a warmth in his eyes, that dulls when he doesn’t feel the familiar comfort of his bed below him but instead a hard, leather seat and an incessant poking to his cheek as Harry softly mutters his name.

Zayn swats his hand away. “What?” he grumbles.

“It’s four, mate. You’ve been asleep for a bit more than two hours, lost track of time,” Harry says, and Zayn hears the grimace in his voice.

He peaks a groggy eye open and shuts it at the bright light. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About three and a half hours. I was just gonna go and grab some food, and I didn’t want you to wake up and I’m not in the car and you don’t know where we are,” Harry says. “I spotted a restaurant down here and it has a Michelin star, says online, so I thought I’d stop there.”

“We didn’t have to stop at a Michelin star restaurant, I would’ve been happy with a cheap, shitty pizza.” Zayn sits up in his chair, rubs the tiredness from his eyes, and stretches as much as he can without hitting Harry. “I could really have a pizza right now, actually.”

“Well, you might be okay with a cheap, shitty pizza, but I’m not; I’m a bit of a food connoisseur.”

“Is that rich talk for ‘ _food snob’_?” Zayn snorts.

“Probably. Anyway, they probably do pizza’s, and it’ll probably be the best pizza you’ve tasted.”

Zayn hums through a gulp of water. “Not true. Cheap shit is usually the best. Can’t really beat a good, cheap Chinese or a Domino’s pizza, although my home-made pizzas are the dogs bollocks—Jude’ll tell you.” Zayn smirks as Harry rolls his eyes. “Is that too working class for you, Harry?”

“I just want to enjoy my rich food in peace, and you’ll enjoy it, too,” he promises.

“I ate at a Gordon Ramsey restaurant once, was alright.” He shrugs. “My opinion sort of changed on the place after I watched that documentary on the workers doing cocaine in the toilets. Probably should have watched it after I ate there.”

“Did you write an article slamming that, too?”

“No, actually, it was on a date. This guy took me to the restaurant, picked me up in a Bentley. I think he was trying to impress me, don’t you think?”

Harry’s brows are twisted as they arch over to him. “You, uhm… you like guys?”

“Uh, yeah, I do,” Zayn mutters, and swallows when Harry does. “Why? Is that an issue?”

“No, I was just—earlier, yesterday, when I was joking about sleeping with each other, I, well, it was just a joke, I didn’t think you were in to—I thought—I mean, you have a kid, so.” He awkwardly shrugs and looks away.

“Another assumption, Harry.” Zayn tuts. “You do a lot of that.”

Harry laughs shortly. “Yeah.”

Zayn looks around and back to him with unsure eyes. “There’s not an issue with that, is there?”

“No, no, of course not,” he assures. “I just—I mean, I was just joking the other day, when I said—”

“I know what you said, I heard, I was here when you said it.” Zayn gives him a pierced-lip smile and shrugs. “It’s a shame you were joking, I was beginning to consider it.” He climbs out of the car and shuts the door, laughing at the part in Harry’s lips as he sits there, still. “That was a joke, Harry. You might not get my sense of humour yet, but it was a joke,” he sets it straight—to Harry, to himself.

“Right.” Harry grabs his phone and his wallet and jumps out of the car.

Zayn jogs to catch up with him, and they walk side-by-side as they cross the street to the restaurant. He stands closer than he should to Harry, their fingers brushing and the hairs on his arms standing up even though the air around them is humid and too hot to be so close.

“Do you want to take out? I think there’s a park a few minutes away. I can see if they’ll just wrap it up for us and we can go and eat there. There’s a nice breeze outside,” Harry asks.

The hot air of the restaurant hits Zayn as the door is held open for him, and they both look at each other.

“Yeah. I think it’s best. I don’t really want to sit and sweat in a fancy restaurant.”

“Do you want to wait outside whilst I go and order? It’s a bit crowded in there, I don’t know whether it would set you off, or something. Your anxiety, I mean,” Harry says.

Zayn smiles at him. “I was actually just thinking that, thanks.”

“S’alright. Anything that’s vegetarian, right? Pizza if they have it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good. And I’m good with spice, so don’t worry about that.”

“Got it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay for it, or something? You’ve brought everything on the trip so far.”

“Zayn, I’ve told you.” He points to himself. “Wanker with a bunch of unnecessary millions. I’m not gonna let you pay for food at an expensive restaurant when you’ve already explained your financial situation and I can easily take care of it. I’d feel like a right dickhead if I made you pay for this, giving what’s gone on,” he says and pats Zayn on the arm.

Zayn clears his throat and takes a step back as a couple leave the restaurant and they find themselves in the way of the entrance.

“Right, I’ll, uhm, I’ll wait here,” he says and sits down on the bench to the side of the restaurant. He points to the windows behind him. “I’ll be able to see you from here.”

Harry grins. “Yeah, me too,” he says, and disappears into the restaurant.

Zayn turns around and suspires, takes the deepest breath that he can into his lungs past the mugginess of the warm air around him. He falls into a day dream that Harry knocks him out of as he leaves the restaurant, two boxes in his hand—one wide and thin, the other cube-like, with steam escaping from the gaps in the sides of the lid. Zayn’s mouth salivates when he smells the pizza, and he has to slap Harry’s hand away to stop him from stealing a piece once they finally agree on a place to sit in the park.

“Just eat your steak and leave me alone,” he grumbles.

“It’s not a steak, it’s a beef wellington.”

“Same animal.”

Harry grunts and goes back to picking at his chips. “These are too greasy.”

Zayn gives him a look. “Harry, you ate McDonald’s this morning. D’you know how much grease and fat is in that?”

“Yeah, but… you know.”

Zayn quirks his face. “No?”

“It’s expected of McDonald’s to be that greasy and dirty for the soul. But a Michelin star restaurant, they’re supposed to be, like, crisp, not soggy.”

Zayn dips his hands into the foil box and tastes the chips. “They taste absolutely fine,” he says. “They’ve gotten slightly limp ‘cause they’ve put vinegar on them and they’ve been sealed in a box. What do you expect?”

“How do you know that?”

“I watch a lot of food shows.”

Harry almost looks impressed, but Zayn just rolls his eyes and goes back to his pizza. “This is good, really good.”

“It should be for how much it cost.”

Zayn stops chewing. “How much did it cost?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m gonna need summat sweet after this.”

“I’m not gonna lie, I could do with a line,” Harry says.

Zayn’s eyes turn wide over Harry, and Harry looks across like he hasn’t said anything strange at all.

“What?” he asks.

“ _You could do with a line?”_ Zayn repeats.

“I’m not gonna do one, I’m just being honest. A line would make this much better.”

“Cocaine doesn’t make anything better.”

“Well, you’ve never been to Ibiza,” he jokes, but his smile falls. “I’m joking.”

“No, you’re not.”

Harry throws a bunch of chips in his mouth instead of responding and looks out across the lake.

“Now, a blunt, maybe,” Zayn says, to break the tension, the awkwardness that he feels is on his shoulders. “Weed always make things taste better. I don’t like salt and vinegar pringles, but I swear, when I’m high, they’re the best fucking thing I’ve ever tasted. I wake up and my tongue is so sore ‘cause I eat so many of them.”

Harry’s brows are raised, amused almost, and his lips twitch at the sides. “You get high?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Not so much now, with Jude and that and being a full-time dad, it’s not responsible to smoke or even keep that stuff in the house. But when Jude is with his grandparents for weekends or summat, me and Niall just fucking blast through it.”

Harry looks to him, almost unbelieving. “Fuck off.”

“No, honestly. Especially when I was in uni and I was stressed and anxious, like, _all the time_ and I couldn’t sleep, I’d just smoke a blunt before I went to sleep and I’d be out, calm when I woke up. I did it a lot before due dates, more stressful stuff. I find better ways to cope now than I did, but it’s still fun, sometimes.”

“I wish you would’ve said earlier.”

“Why?” he says, his voice suspicious and drawled.

Harry smirks. “I have a gram in my bag.”

“Oh, Harry, for fuck sake.” Zayn drops his pizza down. “I’m gonna print out the definition of clean for you, so you actually know what it means.”

“I’m not—it’s not like that. It’s not just addicts that smoke it, it’s a recreational thing. Like cigarettes.”

“All addictions start that way, Harry.”

“No, but I’m not—I’ve never been addicted to weed, I just do it to calm myself down, sometimes. I’m… I’m like you, I have anxiety.” He shrugs, and he looks away with a warmth on his cheeks. “It helps.”

Zayn relaxes his shoulders. “Are you embarrassed about that—having anxiety?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t look at him; he shrugs instead, assesses the lake and the people splashing around and having picnics and enjoying the warm day, because it’s all so much more interesting than Zayn.

“It’s not something to be ashamed about, Harry,” he says. “It’s just… something that happens to people, and it’s fucked up, and we find ways to deal with it how we can. Even if it is smoking weed.”

Harry fleets his eyes across to Zayn before letting them wander away again, swallowing, and looking back down to his food. He picks at a chip and nibbles the end of it, but the effort is gone.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Zayn says after a silence.

“You didn’t upset me,” Harry assures. “It’s just a touchy subject, I’m not as confident about it as you.”

Zayn laughs under his breath. “I’m not confident about it, at all.”

“You know what I mean, Zayn.”

“I don’t, Harry, ‘cause you—”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, alright?” Harry snaps, and he looks across to Zayn with hurt and angry eyes. “I just—I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Zayn whispers, leaning back. “Where are you going?” he asks, as Harry stands to leave the bench.

“I’m just gonna go for a walk,” he mutters. “I’m sorry for, uhm, for snapping at you.”

“S’alright.”

He takes the keys out of his pocket and sets them on the bench, avoiding Zayn again, like his eyes will burn if he looks too close. “I’ll leave these with you, just in case you want to go back to the car.”

“What about your food?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have an appetite anymore,” he says and walks away.

Zayn watches him until he’s left sight, over a hill and between a small forest of trees he can briefly make out the silhouettes of buildings behind. There’s clouds in the sky, and he doesn’t know why but it makes him feel cold, and he shrinks in to himself as they superimpose the sun, and everything turns dull. He pulls back the covers of his and Harry’s food, slipping two slices of his pizza into Harry’s box for later, and he’s back at the car before he realises he’s left the park.

He knows he could take this time to discover, see a small corner of the world he might never have the chance to see again, but he can’t get the image of Harry disappearing out into the unknown city territory, wondering if he knows his way around or if he’ll get lost, and they’ll both be alone in a city they don’t know. But he has to remind himself that it’s Harry Styles, it’s not just Harry; he’s not just the man Zayn has spent the last few days with in their secluded car bubble—he’s probably been here before, one some of the many travels he’s had around the world, touring and living his life to the full, and he really doesn’t have anything to worry about, at all.

As Zayn sits in the car, his back sweating from the heat, counting the red and the silver cars that pass and pretending Jude is beside him to count the black and the blue, the radio playing a song he doesn’t recognise in hopes it’ll distract him from the worry, he realises for the first time that he might possibly, just slightly—if not, inconsequentially—be envious of Harry. 

 


	3. skyscrapers look on like great, unblinking giants

Zayn doesn’t know when he falls asleep, his head perched between the gap of the window and the head-rest, his palms across his chest, but when he does the car is moving, and the faint whistle of the radio tunes the air into focus. He opens his eyes, all groggy and half-asleep and sensitive to the setting sun, and he turns them to the driver’s seat, where Harry is sat, humming away at himself and driving: and Zayn blinks as he tries to think back to before he fell asleep to make sure he didn’t dream what happened in the park, because it looks like they never left the car.

“What time did you get back?” Zayn asks in a croaky voice, stretching.

“About two hours ago,” he replies, voice short but not impatient; like he’s embarrassed. “I don’t know how long you’ve been out for.”

“I don’t know, either, to be honest.” Zayn rubs at the sleep in his eyes and grabs the leftovers by his feet. “I’m starving. Did you eat the rest of your food?”

“Yeah, I did. Thanks for the pizza, by the way. It was, uhm, it was really good.”

“You’re welcome.” Zayn moans as he bites into his pizza, eyes all closed and rolled back. “Pizza tastes so good when it’s cold and you’ve just woke up. Morning pizza is a God send.”

“I usually just drink smoothies in the morning,” Harry says. “I haven’t been the last few days, though.”

“Are you a health freak?”

“No, I just like to keep in shape.”

“I don’t really care about that stuff. Plus, my metabolism is quick, so I’m always, like, skinny,” Zayn says, mumbling through his food. “I have little time between work and being a dad, and I don’t want to spend my only free time working out instead of spending it with my son.”

“I just move around a lot on stage and I have to keep fit, you know? And, I suppose, I’m just one of those people who enjoys working out,” he says.

“Oh, you’re one of those, huh? You like getting all sweaty and dirty?” Zayn stops chewing his food, and Harry smirks. “I didn’t fuckin’ mean it like that, Harry.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Right.”

Harry points to the cup holder between them. “I, uhm, I got you a milkshake from this dessert place I found whilst I was walking around, but it was a few hours ago so all the cream has drooped, and it might have gone weird. It’s just strawberry, I didn’t know which flavour you’d like so I went for the most basic.”

“Strawberry is my favourite.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Thanks, Harry.” He grabs it from the cup holder and brings the straw to his lips. “Still good, still really good. And still cold.”

“There was ice in it.”

Zayn moans at the flavour, at the quench of thirst on his pallet. “This is the best milkshake I’ve ever had. How many calories d’you think this thing has?”

“Well, there’s cream, milk, sorbet, extra sauce, and fresh fruit in there, so… probably a good thousand calories.”

“Jude would absolutely love this,” Zayn says. “What’s the place called?”

“I think it was just called something like The Dessert Place, I think. They did ice creams and crepes and cakes, too, stuff like that.”

“Did you get one?”

“Yeah, I had a, like, an M&M and skittles one with bubblegum sauce,” he says. “Definitely over a thousand calories.”

“That sounds exactly like the one Jude would get. And he’d have the audacity to ask for more skittles and bubble-gum sauce.” Zayn shakes his head with a smile, and he feels Harry peer over at him, but he goes back to his pizza before either of them can speak.

“Do you do that a lot?” Harry asks. “Like, think of Jude in situations when he’s not around?”

Zayn hums as he chews his food, waiting until he’s swallowed to talk. “All the time. It’s a parent thing. I’m always thinking about the ways he’d react, like if something’s funny I imagine his cute, little giggle, or how he’d get excited over the smallest things, like cute dogs or birds or people with funny coloured hair in the street—God, he loves it when I dye my hair. One time, I dyed my hair red and he told everyone at school his Baba was a clown,” he says, reminiscently, sweetly melancholic. “He’s such a smiley, giggly kid. Makes me happy even on the gloomy days when it seems impossible to smile. After a bad day at work or something. I don’t feel complete without him beside me, I’ve gotta be honest.”

Harry smiles over at him, and it seems stupid that Zayn looks away, all flushed and embarrassed and a ridiculous grin on his lips, but he does. He looks out the window, out into the open space as there’s a break between the tedium of the city and a small group of fields lays out the scene.

“Have you spoken to him today?”

“I’ll ring him later.” Zayn puts his empty food box back into the back and shoves it on the floor. “D’you want me to, uhm, drive for a bit? I know that we’re probably behind schedule and you should rest for a bit, and whilst you sleep I can drive so we can catch up?” he offers.

A hesitance sweeps into Harry’s face. “I don’t know. I feel more comfortable driving.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do. I don’t want you falling asleep and killing us both before we get to where we need to go,” Zayn says, shortly laughing. “I have a family to get back to. And you do, too.”

Harry looks to him quickly before looking away. He blinks, looks around the road and the fields and anywhere but Zayn, and keeps his silence with him for a count. Eventually, when he realises that ignoring him and tapping on the steering wheel and hoping Zayn will forget the conversation doesn't work, he nods; it’s begrudging, but he nods.

“Are you sure you can drive?” he asks.

“Yes, Harry, I’m sure I can drive. I commute through rush-hour London five to six days a week. I can probably drive better than you.”

“Alright, well, we can swap over at the next petrol station,” he says. “Would you mind if I got in the back and lied down? My neck is killing me, I don’t know how you sleep in that chair.”

“The amount of times I’ve fell asleep in chairs with Jude on my chest is uncountable. My neck is completely adjusted to uncomfortable positions.”

“Joys of being a dad?” Harry humorously says.

“The fucking joys.”

Zayn watches the lump rise and fall in Harry’s throat, watches his eyes dart around before landing on the road—something he notices Harry does a lot, especially when he’s nervous and doesn’t know what to do with himself, almost like he’s out of place in his own car and not Zayn, the stranger, the interloper between the destination and him.

Harry turns the car off in the nearest parking space he can find and climbs into the back, whilst Zayn gets comfortable in the driver’s seat.

“What kind of car do you have?” Harry asks.

“Oh, it’s just a shitty fiesta that’s gone all rusty around the arches, stained seats. Don’t know how it’s still passing its MOT, to be honest,” Zayn says. He taps the steering wheel. “Nothing on your collection.”

“Gets you from point A to point B, doesn’t it?”

“Barely.”

“You don’t need a bunch of fancy cars. That’s just a me kind of thing; a kind of _‘spend-my-money-on-materialistic-things-to-fill-the-void-in-my-chest’_ thing.”

Zayn swallows his lip between his teeth because he doesn’t know what to say. Harry remains silent, too, past a heavy breath and a shuffle into a comfortable position in the back seat, and Zayn gets a draft of his own aftershave when Harry plumps up his coat to use it for a cushion.

“You didn’t need to bring a coat in this weather,” Harry says.

“I didn’t know how warm or cold it was going to be. Didn’t want to risk it, thought it would just be easier to bring one with me as opposed to having to buy a new one when I get to wherever it is cold.” He shrugs. “I just follow the directions on the GPS, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll tell you where to go.”

He takes a breath. “Right.”

“Are you alright, Zayn?”

Zayn looks back in the mirror to find Harry’s eyes on him, brows lowered in that concerned way that makes his toes curl in his boots, that makes him look away immediately—as if he’ll be blinded if he looks for any longer, with that sharp tinge in the back of his eyes and the dizziness of Harry’s glaze that sweeps past like the shadow of a building through the window.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t realise I’d be a bit anxious getting into the driver’s seat—it’s just set in that I don’t know where I’m driving and it, sort of, just made my chest a little tight. It’s alright, though, don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? I can get back in the driver’s seat if you’d like.”

“No, honestly, it’s fine,” Zayn assures. “I’m alright. You just rest, go to sleep or summat.”

“Trying to get rid of me, huh? Am I that intolerable?”

Zayn catches Harry’s smirk in the rear-view mirror. “Somewhat.”

“Well, I am tired, so I will be going to sleep—not because you told me to, but because I’m tired.”

Zayn hides his smile. “Great reiteration, Harry.”

“Just wake me up if you get lost, or if you get too tired. We’ll swap over again.”

Zayn nods his head, even though he knows Harry probably already has his eyes closed and can’t see him, but he lets the silence dwell. It doesn’t take him long to notice that he can’t listen to the GPS and the radio at the same time—after two wrong turns and a circle five minutes back from where he was—but he’s glad when the clouds fold over the sky and the rain begins to fall against the windows, just so there’s some noise to break apart the monotonous quiet of the car and Harry’s quiet snores that make Zayn look back with this smile he doesn’t really _know_ where it’s from, but it’s there, on his lips, anyway—curling and reminding him that his lips are dry at the seams and making him frown whenever he catches himself at what he’s doing.

“God, it’s pissing it down,” Harry says abut an hour later. He shuffles about so Zayn can see him and his half-flat hair in the rear-view mirror, and yawns.

“It has been for the last hour or two,” Zayn replies. “Did it wake you up?”

“Yeah, woke me up about twenty minutes ago, couldn’t go back to sleep.” Harry’s quiet after, and Zayn watches him in little glances rearrange his hair with his fingers. He settles down at the window a few minutes later, looking all pensive and almost gloomy, with the splits of water on the window glossing up his eyes and making him look younger. “Does Jude like the rain,” he asks, sort of all random and curious.

It takes Zayn by surprise; eyebrows raised before they’re deepened, and a cough is in his throat. “Uhm, no, he actually hates the rain. Thinks the house is gonna flood if it rains too much, which, y’know, would be a logical fear if we lived in a country that got enough rain to do that, but we don’t.”

“Is he, you know… anxious, too?”

“Yeah. Well, nothing has been diagnosed, but he’s definitely got some anxiety like his daddy,” Zayn says, letting out a little huff under his breath. “Probably the _worst_ thing I gave to him.”

“You didn’t ask to give him your anxiety, I’d try not to beat yourself up about it.” Harry rests his arms on the spaces beside Zayn’s head rest and leans forward. “You sound like you, sort of, beat yourself up about it, but I’d try not to. You might have another kid and he might be perfectly, genetically anxiety-free.”

“Yeah,” is all Zayn mumbles in return.

“I mean, that’s if you’re gonna have any more kids,” he reiterates.

“I think one is enough for now,” Zayn jokes, not really smiling for long, but Harry joins him, anyway. “It has crossed my mind. But… I don’t know. Juggling one kid and a full-time job is enough, I couldn’t imagine having another new born on top of Jude, even though I know he’d be really good with a baby. Plus, I think making the mistake of having a child with someone I didn’t plan on settling down long-term with or feel financially or emotionally stable with the first time around was enough to teach me not to have a baby without being in a secure relationship and actually _wanting_ a child first.”

“So, that’s what happened with the mum, then?” Harry asks, a hesitant clip to his voice but he proceeds, anyway. “You didn’t, uhm, you didn’t plan to have Jude?”

“No. I mean, obviously, I wouldn’t take it back for the world. That boy is my absolute favourite, most precious thing in the world,” Zayn says. “But five months before Jude was born, I never even thought about—like, having a baby wasn’t in the picture at all. But, I guess, that’s what unprotected and drunken one-night stands get you.”

“The best thing to ever happen in your life?” Harry jokes with his own little chuckle.

“Well… yeah.” Zayn laughs with him.

“Do you mind if I ask what’s up with the mum?”

“Well, you just asked me, so it doesn’t matter, anyway, does it?”

“No, I mean, you don’t have to answer.” Harry waves his hand. “I’m just being nosy, don’t worry about it.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll tell you. I’m just teasing you, Harry.”

“Oh.”

“Although, I am wondering how many of these story-times we’ve going to have.”

“Well, it’s a road-trip. Shit like this is usually full of them, especially when it’s two strangers on the road to…well, wherever we’re going.”

“Fine, but you have to tell the next one.”

“Fair enough.” Harry shifts to the left-hand seat, so he can see Zayn better from the side, is what he tells him. He leans his back against the door and lays his legs out over the seat. “So, this mum of Jude’s,” he drawls out.

“Okay, first of all, drop the contemptuous attitude,” Zayn says. “She’s, uhm, she’s got a lot of issues. Issues that a court decided were best kept away from Jude and I; that’s the simplest way to put it.” 

“So, she’s…”

“A mentally unstable drug addict.”

“Oh.”

Zayn pops his lips. “Yeah.”

“And does she get to see Jude?”

“No.”

“Like, not at all?”

“The last time she saw Jude, she tried to run away with him. He was only eight months old. You could say the maternal bond was strong,” Zayn tries to joke, but it doesn’t work. The atmosphere in the car lies flat. “I don’t blame her for it. She’d been in rehab a week or so, she was withdrawing really bad—like, she was just unwell, and her anxiety was through the roof, and, I guess, she just wanted the comfort of her son, thought that Jude was the one who could get her through it.

“So, you visited her in rehab and she tried to steal your baby.”

“It was her baby, too. Still is. But, yeah. I went to the toilet and I asked if the woman standing by who worked there could just keep an eye on her. I didn’t get to the end of the hall where the toilets were before they were calling me back. She’d picked Jude up from his stroller and had run down the hallway with him. I don’t know where she was trying to go, didn’t know why she though she could get past the front doors, but she tried it. And she succeeded in long herself in a room with Jude for four hours, which was fun for my anxiety, _obviously_ ,” Zayn tells. “I just remember him crying the whole fucking time, and he was due for a feed, and she started getting so upset and just started shouting at him to shut up. At least, I think it was Jude she was talking to.”

“That’s sounds fucking awful.”

“It was. I don’t think I let Jude out of my sight for, like, a week. I didn’t go to work, I didn’t leave the house, I didn’t even drink because I didn’t want to leave his sight to have to piss, ‘cause I had this ridiculous idea in my mind that she was gonna escape and come and wait outside my door and grab him when I wasn’t in the room. But, I guess, that’s OCD for you.”

They stay quiet as the GPS tells Zayn the next instructions, and he turns through a roundabout and onto a new road before he feels Harry’s eyes on him again, like screws digging into his skull and making his shoulders and neck all tense. He feels that fucking lump in his throat he should probably name seeming as it rents out his throat so often, and he takes a swill of very cold and separated coffee just to reassure himself he isn’t choking.

“My mum finally snapped me out of it, took him off my hands for a few hours a day; first when I was still in the house, and then I went out, and then finally back to work, just to get me slowly re-introduced without too much anxiety. I’d ring up the rehab constantly and check if she was still there ‘cause I was so paranoid she was gonna get out. I mean, she didn’t even know where we lived, but, like I said…” Zayn taps his temple.

Harry lights a cigarette and rolls down the window. “Where did you meet this nutjob?”

“Don’t call her that, Harry.” Zayn chokes out a laugh. “She’s mentally unstable, don’t provoke the stigma,” he seriocomically scolds.

“Well, where did you meet her?”

“At a party some rich dude held for our graduation, in this club somewhere in central London. I had too many tequila shots, she was there, out of her mind on whatever she’d decided to take, and we fucked in a bathroom cubicle. And she rang me three months later—God knows how she got my number—and told me she was up the duff. And then, there was Jude, my little ball of sunshine. Obviously, the situation wasn’t that light-hearted and easy, but he was still my light in the struggle of it all. My little anchor.”

“And when did you, you know, get custody of Jude?”

“Pretty much straight away.”

“Oh.”

“Cassie tried to leave the hospital with him the day she gave birth ‘cause she was afraid they were gonna take him away.”

“A bit ironic,” Harry scoffs.

Zayn bites his lip, his voice noticeably lower than before as he speaks. “She disappeared for a week.”

He senses Harry shift closer, sees Harry’s arms wrap around the chair of the passenger side, his smoke trickling into the front.

“So, she just ran from the hospital with a baby in her arms… and they let her?”

“She discharged herself. I mean, she was allowed to do it. But she took Jude when he wasn’t even a day old, and he was premature by, like, four weeks, so he had to be under the supervision of the hospital, but she just took him anyway, disappeared with him for days.” Zayn chokes out this hurt laugh at the memory, tries to blink back the sting in the back of his eyes. He clears his throat. “It wasn’t enough to arrest her, obviously—she’s Judie’s mum. But it was sufficient evidence in court. And, well, that was a whole shit show of its own. You know, she tried to attack the judge?”

Harry’s brows arch. “From what I’ve heard of her character, it’s not surprising.”

“I don’t blame her, to be honest. If a judge stood in front of me and told me I had all legal custody of Jude taken away from me, I think I’d be even worse. And a mother’s bond at that time is always so strong…” Zayn shakes his head. “I couldn’t imagine what it was like for her.”

When Harry stays silent, Zayn looks over at him, but he looks away just as fast when Harry’s eyes are already there—meeting him, all full and, sort of, crinkled at the sides, and the opposite of that indifferent pose they’ve taken, that sweeping cold of emerald and moss, since Zayn met him. He has to take a second for a deep breath, a swallow to try and break down his heart that’s risen in his throat, and he wipes his hand quickly against the seams of his sensitive cheeks, so Harry can’t see it’s actually him that’s made them all red and gooey.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks through the quiet, all diffident and soft, resisting the desire to curl up and look away from the moment.

“You just have this… thing.”

Zayn quirks his brow, smiling. “This thing?”

“No, I mean, like, you have this thing—I don’t remember what you call it, the word for it, but it’s like, when someone has a really profound and, like, deep sense of, like, knowing and care for the people around them. You know, like, even if that person isn’t particularly being treated well, they’ll still go out of their way to be kind back because they’d rather put good out into the world than more hate,” Harry explains, his hands all gesticulative and in motion. “Like, it’s almost an involuntary thing to be kind, even when, maybe, you don’t want to be sometimes, but that’s how you were raised or that’s just who you are. You’re that type of person.”

Zayn is glad that Harry is sat in the back-seat and not next to him to see the absolutely ridiculous smile on his face—one that he tries to hide between seconds of ducking his head down or looking out the window for as long as he can before they have to be glued back to the road again, so Harry can’t see him in the rear view mirror, so he can’t see the vulnerable, couth, so-out-of-character expression on his face that only the people he really loves get to see.

He takes a breath. “And what made you say all that? That’s some really cutesy, not-like-you shit to say.”

“You speak about Jude’s mum just like another person. You know, not like someone who stole your kid once, not like a drug addict or a freak, but as a person. Like, you still see her as Jude’s mum, despite all of what she’s done.”

“But she is still a person, Harry. Her mental troubles don’t define her.”

“That’s the type of thing I’m talking about, like…” he pauses, almost like he’s caught up with his tongue as he makes this wordless sounds. “If that was me, I would’ve called her a crazy bitch and told her she’d never see her son again. And I probably would’ve made sure that the people around me knew, aswell. But you, you still talk about her with a regard, like you still respect her,” he says. “And you have no reason to, like, she hasn’t given you a valid reason to like her, but you still… you don’t condemn her—not like everyone else would, like everyone else probably has. It says a lot about you, as a person. Tells me I couldn’t’ve possibly been any more wrong about you.”

“I can be a dick when I want to be,” Zayn says, a comicality to his voice.

“Trust me, I know,” he assures with a scoff. “But, maybe, only to the people who have given you a reason to be a dick—like I did. Maybe not even then.”

Zayn bites his lip to tone down the smile but trying to push it back into place seems to be as impossible as fitting tissues back into a box once they’ve all been pulled out. He looks to Harry in the rear-view mirror, a glimmer in his eye as the sun passes through the window.

“Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate it.”

“S’fine, you’re welcome.” Harry smiles back at him reassuringly, his cigarette paused to the side of his lip, smoke trickling over his lips like honey, his arms all crossed over his chest, tattoos and biceps and skin on display. His tanned and delicate and soft-looking skin.

Zayn looks away and clears his throat. “I think the word you were looking for was benevolent.”

Harry clicks his fingers. “That’s the one. You’re so smart.”

He laughs. “What’s with all the compliments? Did you hit your head or summat when I took a hard turn?”

“I had an epiphany when I was asleep,” he says.

“Oh yeah? Go on, then.”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Harry hums. “‘Cause it’s mine.” He lights a new cigarette between his lips and passes it over to Zayn. “You’re not a bad driver, are you?”

“I told you that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m protective of my cars. It’s like when people have dogs, but I have cars instead.”

“Don’t you think cars are more like cats?”

“What? No,” Harry says.

“Like, more like a jaguar or summat. ‘Cause it, y’know, growls and roars like the engine of a car.”

“Well… maybe, when you say it like that. But if we’re talking in terms of pets, or, like, things that replace my need for emotional attachments, dogs all the way.”

Zayn hums. “Would still pick cats.”

“Oh no.”

Zayn looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“I know where this is going.”

“Where what’s going?”

“This is going to turn into a cat’s vs dogs conversation.”

He laughs. “No, it’s not, Harry.”

“It is.”

“It only is if you make it.”

“No, it is because you’re a cat person, and I know for a fact that cats can’t ever replace dogs—like ever. They’re on a different spectrum.”

Zayn’s mouth parts. “Oh, I beg to differ.”

“No. Impossible. Cats haven’t got anything on dogs.”

“So, you’re one of those people who thinks cats are these, like, soulless creatures who hate everyone.”

“They’re ignorant as fuck, only pay attention to you when they want food, and scratch the shit out of you the rest of the time.”

Zayn feels his chest go tight in defence. “Not true.”

“Is true.”

“Is not.”

“It definitely is.”  

“We have a cat called Jasper, and he’s 100% the complete opposite of everything you just said,” Zayn says. “He adores Jude, and Jude adores him.

“I bet he’s plotting to kill Jude.”

“Well, I win those one ‘cause I have a kid.”

“What?” Harry laughs. “How does that make sense?”

“Alright, how about we leave this conversation until we next speak to Jude, and he’ll tell you that cats are the best and you’re the worst, and that kid never loses an argument, I’m warning you.” Zayn looks back at him, thin lips, shrugging. “Your choice.”

Harry slumps in his chair with a huff. “You win this one, but dogs win overall.”

“Not how winning works.”

“Well, it is for me.”

It falls silent on the long stretch of road intertwined between the trees, the smoke from Zayn’s cigarette behind the wheel fogging up his side of the car, and the rear-view mirror is blurred, he finds, as he subconsciously looks up to glance at Harry and discovers only half of him past the haze—like he’s a child who needs supervision, who needs looking after; like he’s Jude.

“What’s Jude’s favourite colour?” Harry asks.

“Uhm, it changes from week to week. He sees something shiny and bright and then he loves it for a while until he finds something new. At the moment I think it’s bright red. Like, Man United red.”

“Right. And what’s his favourite film?”

“Either Pocahontas or Monsters. Inc.”

“Favourite food?”

“Pizza,” Zayn says, before adjusting, “no, maybe ice-cream. He loves a bowl of mint choco chip. Like me.”

“Vienetta?”

Zayn smiles at Harry. “Gotta be, hasn’t it?”

“I used to eat a shit tonne of that stuff when I was younger,” Harry says, a sigh to his voice that only nostalgia brings. “Every Sunday after dinner, without fail. Five o’clock. Me and Gemma used to swap things around because she always loved the chocolate bits that separated the ice-cream layers, and I always loved the frothy bit of caramelised ice-cream on top, so we used to sit there picking it apart and putting it into each other’s bowls—Gemma is my sister, by the way, if you didn’t know.”

“I did.”

“Right.”

Zayn takes the last of his cigarette into his lungs and throws it out the window.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

He rolls his eyes. “How did I know you were gonna say something?”

“I’m just saying,” Harry mumbles.

“You don’t have an ashtray, I didn’t have anywhere else to put it.”

Zayn looks back and sees Harry shrug, before rolling down his own window and chucking the bud out of the window, too. And he smiles; not because it’s humorous or provoking in any way, but because he knows three days ago they would have bitten each other’s faces off until there was nothing left but disgruntled and annoyed expressions. Now, there’s an indifference in the car that’s neither hostile or cumbersome, and instead calming—maybe even comforting in those moments when Zayn things too far behind, back to home and how he’s missing it and everything there more than he lets on—and it’s almost like, and you might think it’s absolutely ridiculous for Zayn to think this, but it’s almost like they’re friends. Just on the road together, talking so effortlessly with one another that it feels like nothing at all, feels like nothing but the usual air he inhales and exhales out of his lungs, instead of that sense of tar that spikes across his throat whenever he spoke to Harry before.

He shakes his head and takes another cigarette out of the box to hold it between his lips. He doesn’t light it, Zayn just holds it there and lets the tobacco sweep into nose and relax him. It’s better than smoking it, sometimes; something he does a lot of when he’s in the house and he’s too stressed but Jude is in the room next to him, and instead of letting the nicotine invade the kitchen air—because he knows Jude could walk in at any moment and get caught up in the fog of it all—and he knows he can’t smoke it no matter how much he wants to.

He doesn’t know. He feels to pent up to think about it, now.

“Are you alright, Zayn?” Harry asks.

Harry’s eyes are a hot, blazing heat on the side of his head, but he doesn’t turn around to look, pretends the rear-view mirror no longer exists as he looks around at the road, the leather interior of this rich, fancy fucking car—not at Harry. At anything but Harry.

And it’s not Harry’s fault; it’s really not. Zayn just likes to pretend the world doesn’t exist, sometimes.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Harry. I just told you I was,” he snaps.

“Okay,” Harry replies, sounding defeated. “Was just asking. You’ve gone all quiet and slumped, like you’re all sad. I thought you weren’t breathing for a minute.”

“The world is a fucking sad place,” he says, and tosses the cigarette onto the dashboard, sighing.

“Wow. That was very pessimistic. You know, I think I can see a dark, grey cloud looming over your head.” Harry’s fingers tickle at the hairs on top of Zayn’s head.

He flinches away with a sigh-like laugh. “Harry, stop. I’m trying to concentrate on driving.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“Well, how about no talking, so I can concentrate properly and hear the GPS,” Zayn suggests.

“Nope, sorry, can’t have the silence for too long. Drives me mad. It’s the lack of drugs, I think, which sounds mad, doesn’t it?” Harry says. “You know, drugs always, like, calmed me down, but gave me energy, too. It was always a good balance of both until they wore off, so a very short amount of time. But being off them…” Zayn senses Harry shake his head. “It’s like I need to talk more, to do something, to fill a gaping hole, or something. You know, just tapping my knee or humming or drawing patterns in my jeans or flicking a pen, smoking, just _something_ to take my mind off it. Otherwise, I start thinking about it more, about how easy I could get it because even though the numbers aren’t in my phone anymore, I’ve remembered them by heart.” He sighs, reaches forward into the front for the cigarette Zayn threw on the dashboard and lights it, and Zayn sees the smoke cloud over to him from his peripheral view. “That’s why it’s a good thing I’m not at home—back in LA, whatever. It’s good that I’m here, with you, somewhere I don’t know, so the temptations aren’t as easy to yield to.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles, because it’s all that comes to mind, all he thinks he can say. “I’m—I’m the same at night. I can’t go to sleep without noise, otherwise I start over-thinking things and I worry myself awake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Things like, if the doors are all closed or the windows all shut in case someone tries to climb in and Jude gets scared, or they steal stuff and trash the house; if Jude is okay, if he needs me for anything. Sometimes, I go and climb in his bed with him ‘cause… Well, sometimes, I need him more than he needs me.”

“I think that’s okay. We need to hold on to other people, sometimes. Just the way it is,” Harry says, a reassuring smile on his lips. “In fact, I lean on to a lot of other people in my life. Management, agents, other artists, designers, stylists, drug dealers—it’s not a good thing when you over-do it. But to have a bond with your son like that, it’s a very special thing. To see each other as, you know, friends instead of just father and son. That’s the way you should be with him, not like my dad was with me: just an insensitive, macho brute who thought he’d turn me gay if he hugged me.”

“Didn’t do anything in the end, did it?” Zayn laughs to himself.

Harry smirks into the rear-view mirror. “No, it didn’t. Nothing at all.”

Zayn looks up into the glass and down, back to himself in the secluded angle of the car where he can be alone, and swallows. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Harry.”

Harry blows his smoke out of the window this time. “What about?”

“About, y’know, knowing stuff and being smart. I can tell you’re smart, just by the way your eyes move around, by how they keep contact when we talk.” He pauses to turn right when the GPS tells him to. “You’re in tune with yourself, definitely. But you’re also very self-deprecating. You don’t expect much of yourself, do you?”

Zayn watches him shake his head, bring his nail to his mouth to pick at a loose end, before his cigarette finds his lips again, and he answers with eyes out of the window.

“When you don’t expect anything, everything seems like either a gift or an achievement.”

“Well, I think you’re a talented guy. And I think you have more to achieve, more to show than what you’ve already shown.” Zayn says, and their eyes meet in the mirror. He looks away quickly back to the road—because he has to but also because he wants to; because, sometimes, the air gets so stuffy between them that he feels like he can’t breathe straight. “I wish you believed in yourself more.”

“It’s difficult to do that when there’s people like you who like to smear me all over the internet in unfavourable colours,” he replies, and it’s almost a remark.

Zayn could deflect the taste of bitterness in Harry’s tone if he wanted to, could pretend it was nothing, but he decides to cling onto it, instead. It sets deep into the crow’s feet of his forehead, in his nose that flares subtly at the dryness in the air, into his chest where it gyrates and sits heavier than it did before; an electrifying and spiteful vapor that condensates into a burdensome and whirling liquid in his stomach that fills him with a sense of contrite and uneasiness he didn’t feel before.

“I know,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have said half the shit I’ve said, I know that now. I mean, some of it turned out to be true, like, there was cocaine on the dash—that’s not the point.” He sighs, curses when the GPS cuts off his sentence and he starts again. “I’m sorry. If I haven’t said it already, I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he assures, nodding his head. “And, I mean, you can’t be all that bad if you’re taking me to the other side of Europe, for free. I think I’ve had the pleasure—but also, just a little bit, of the nuisance—of getting to know you better than a lot of people do in the last few days. And you’ve definitely changed my mind about a few things. I’ll hold my hands up when I’m wrong, when I think I’m truly wrong, and I am, and I’m sorry.”

“I really appreciate that, Zayn. Thank you,” he says quietly; so quietly—almost as if he’s gone all shy. “You’re really not to bad, yourself. Maybe just a bit flippant at the keyboard.”

He laughs. “Right. I’ll reign my fingers in when it comes to you from now on.”

“Good. And I won’t try to get you fired,” he stops, almost as if he wants to say more but he decides not to. “Couldn’t have Jude go without his mint chocolate chip ice-cream, could we?” 

“He’d live. If you took away his extensive marvel collection, though—that’d be the end of you, mate. Kid goes crazy about them. Probably ‘cause of me.”

“You like all that Iron man, Batman type shit?” Harry asks.

“Sort of.” Zayn laughs. “Iron man and Batman are from different universes entirely.”

“Aren’t they both superheroes?”  

“Yeah but they’re different. Basically, Iron man is Marvel, Batman is DC,” he says, before adding when hears the confusion in the air. “No, they’re not the same. They’re completely different brands.”

“I’m not even going to get into it,” Harry decides. “I’m already confused, so God help me if you tried to explain it.”

“Probably for the best.”

It goes quiet until there’s a rustling in the back, and Zayn looks in the mirror not to find Harry’s face but to find his arse sticking up in the air. Harry’s hair tickles his shoulder, his shirt, and his wide shoulders are trying to fit through into the front. Zayn dodges his knee just barely.

“Harry, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Uh. What does it look like I’m doing, Sherlock?”

“It looks like you’re trying to get me to crash the car.”

“If you do that, I will kill you.”

“Look, you twat. You’ve knocked the gear stick with your shoe. Now it’s all fucking dirty,” Zayn moans.

“Oh, just anti-bac it.” Harry huffs as he slumps down into the chair. “That was a work out.”

“Do me a favour and don’t do something stupid like that again,” Zayn chastises. “You could’ve just waited until we got to a petrol station or a traffic light or summat and just got out the car and into the front.”

“I didn’t want to wait.” He feels Harry’s eyes assess him over. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“I was too warm, so I took it off.”

“Why didn’t I notice you weren’t wearing a shirt before?”

“Because you’re stupid?” Zayn teases and looks over to him. Harry’s eyes are already on his skin, over the peak of his stomach and across his abs and back up to his eyes with a sly grin, whilst Zayn’s cower away, all couth and embarrassed.

“Why didn’t you put the AC on?”

“I didn’t want to be too cold.”

“Fair enough.”

Zayn glances over again and sighs. “Stop looking at me like that, Harry.”

“Why? Does it make you feel all squirmish?” He drifts his fingers over Zayn’s bare shoulder.

To prove the point, Zayn squirms away. “It makes me feel all weird, like I want to put my top back on, and it’s too hot for that. So, don’t.”

“Your cute, little kangaroo pouch hangs over your jeans,” Harry says, aww-ing. “It’s like a little baby’s belly, all soft and pudgy and cute.”

“Will you fucking stop?” Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s called too much ice-cream and not enough time to work out past work, dad-ing, stressing out, and sleeping.”

Harry pokes at his chest. “Your abs say differently.”  

“Did anyone ever tell you not to touch someone’s body without consent?” Zayn bites, brows low and light-hearted. “That’s called house-work and a new year’s resolution that has yet to wear away; one I decided to revoke a couple months ago. I’m an all ice-cream, all dad, all no exercise zone, who doesn’t have the time or the energy to care what his bod looks like anymore. I have other things to prioritise.”

“That’s seems justified, I suppose,” Harry says. “Although, staying fit is really important, you know.”

“Thanks, Shaun T.”

“I mean it.”

“I get enough exercise running about for my baby, and doing all the housework, ‘cause I live with two children when I should live with one. And I don’t need the lecture,” he mutters.

“Alright, alright,” Harry replies, hands up. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“We’ll get something at the hotel. It’s a nice hotel, five stars. I booked the best suite they had, considering the penthouses were booked.”

Zayn gives him a look. “Were you really gonna rent out a penthouse for _one_ night?”

“Yes, Zayn. I’m rich, if you remember.”

“Oh, don’t worry” – Zayn shifts his hands over the leather interior of the car – “I remember.”

“How far away are we?”

He checks the small screen of the GPS. “Uhm, about an hour and a half, it says.”

Harry groans. “But I’m starving.”

“Oh yeah, go on, have a strop about it. That’ll make you less hungry.”

“Shut up.” Harry frowns at him. “We can stop at a petrol station, or something, and then we can switch over again.”

“If we stop at a petrol station, it’s going to take us longer to get there.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need a piss, anyway, and I’m not going in a bottle.”

“You’ll have a good job of that, there’s no bottles in the car.”

“Exactly. So, we’ll stop at a petrol station.”

“D’you think they’ll have starbars, or do we only have those in the UK?” Zayn asks.

“I have no idea. They might have Aero.”

“I’m really craving peanut butter, but, like, not peanut butter on its own. Peanut butter covered in chocolate.”

“Moment on the lips…”

“Lifetime of me not giving a fuck about it,” he finishes. “Stop commenting on my weight, it’s not funny.”

“Sorry, m’just joking around,” Harry says quietly, lips apologetic as they curl to one side.

“I know, don’t worry.”

They fall into their own space, a quiet as thick as a wall coming between them to divide parts of the car. To tame the silence, Zayn reaches for the radio—because listening to whatever shit is popular these days is better than this. But Harry has the same idea, too, it seems, and their hands collide at the power button of the radio, and they both retract like they’ve been burned.

“Sorry—it’s fine,” they both say, and laugh it off.

“You go,” Zayn says. “Put whatever you want on.”

“Oh, there’s a petrol station!”

“Do you have to shout?” Zayn moans. “You scared me.”

“Cross over into the next lane and pull in.”

“Alright, Harry. I know how to pull in to a petrol station.”

Zayn pauses the GPS and turns into a pump slot in the station. It’s not dark yet, but the lights in the station are already illuminated, and he squints as he looks across the dash.

“Suppose it’s a good thing we stopped. We need petrol.”

“Are you coming in?” Harry asks, but he’s out of the car before Zayn can respond.

“Yeah, sure, Harry. I’ll come in with you, thanks for asking. You’re so generous,” he sarcastically says as he slams his door shut behind him.

Harry already has an arm full of snacks he really doesn’t need by the time Zayn enters the shop.

“Why do you need that many?” he asks, coming to stand beside him and check out the chocolate. “Look, they’ve got Yorkie’s.”

“You want one?”

“No, I’ve never really liked them.”

“Then, why did you point it out?”

“It just excited me for a second that they have Yorkie’s in Poland, give me a break. Plus, they’re just huge blocks of chocolate and they’re difficult to bite,” he says, and Harry quirks his brow at him. “I’m more of a chocolate with filling type of guy.”

“Right.” Harry holds up a chocolate bar. “They have Bueno’s.”

“Sold. Get four.”

He frowns. “Four?”

“I can eat, like, two of those at once. And I’ll probably steal yours, so.” Zayn shrugs.

“Right. Well, you can grab them, my hands are full.”

“Why do you need all this, Harry?” Zayn shifts the items around in Harry’s arms, so he can see. “Cheetos, and Walkers, _and_ Polish crisps. Gatorade, skittles, Starbursts, Lion bars, Iced coffee, some polish sweets I’m not even gonna try to pronounce. Your teeth are gonna fall off before we get to the hotel,” he says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry groans and spins around with a huff.

“What have I done?” Zayn asks, defensive.

“No, not you,” he says, and points to the window. “A fan just saw me outside.”

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly. “And why is that such an issue?”

“Because, Zayn, where there’s one of them, there’s fifty or a hundred.”

“Okay, well… We’ll just pay for the stuff now and get out of here. We’ll be quick. They won’t have time to, like, hoard or anything.”

Harry laughs under his breath, like Zayn is missing out on a joke he doesn’t understand. “It takes minutes. Trust me.”

“Alright. Well, let’s go to the till now, before you have a break down, or summat,” Zayn says.

Harry glares. “You don’t believe me, do you? We’re fucked.”

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic.”

Harry drops all the items down onto the till, ignoring the knowing stare that the cashier gives him. “You’ll think I’m being dramatic when they take photos of us together and journalism houses sweep in for the pictures like fucking vultures, and you’ll be on the cover of a newspaper with a false dating headline,” he says. “Honestly, I’m doing it for you.”

“Doing what?”

“Panicking,” he snaps, says as if it’s obvious.

“Okay. Just take a fucking breather, alright? We’ll be fine.” Zayn looks to the cashier, who is still jus stood listening to their conversation. “Are you going to scan these,” he says calmly, because although the idea of him being on the front cover of a newspaper with false rumours spreading around the country makes an anxiety manifest in his chest—thinking of what people would say, people at work, Niall, Jude if he saw; how would he explain that to him?—he knows that one of them has to remain calm, and it looks like it’s him.

“Can you go faster?” Harry says to the cashier, who gives him a guilty look before continuing at the same pace. “Oh, fucking here they come, look at them.” He points out the window with an exasperated hand and drops it down to his side, dropping down to his knees, so he’s hidden behind the glass design of the shop. “Why aren’t they at home? They should be in their pyjama’s, watching reality TV, or eating supper, or in bed, or something. Not here.”

Zayn squints to look out the window, the bright lights in the store showing him more of his own reflection than anything. “I think some of them _are_ in their PJ’s.”

“How many would you say there were?”

“Uhm… about ten?” he says, before adding. “Oh. No, there’s more coming down the street. About twenty or so.”

“Fuck sake.” Harry takes out his wallet and puts a couple of notes on the till, grabbing as many snacks with his hands as he can.

The bell of the door goes behind them. “Uhm, I think they’re coming in, Haz,” Zayn whispers to him.

He looks to the cashier. “If they ask where I’ve gone, tell them I went out the backway. And if they ask if that’s my car outside, tell them no,” he says, and skulks off with low knees to a single bathroom on the other side of the shop, ducking behind the shelves. “Zayn, hurry up, for fuck sake.”

Zayn grabs the rest of the snacks off the side and jogs to catch Harry up. Harry locks the door behind them when they’re both inside, and he sets the snacks down in the sink, turning around to lean against it with a sigh—his hands in his hair as they pull, stressed, and the curls are straighter as he brings his hand away.

“Are you alright?” Zayn asks.

“Fine,” he says, voice short. “Just stressed now.”

Zayn cross his arms and leans against the wall. “Does this happen often?”

“All the fucking time. Most of the time it’s alright, you know? It comes with the job. I accept it, and I liked to meet fans. But, sometimes, I just want them to go the fuck away and leave me be.” He looks to Zayn with tired eyes. “Does that sound ungrateful?”

Zayn gives him a side-lipped smile. “A little.”

He suspires. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just… I wish I had the privilege of going somewhere without being bombarded with ‘Harry this’ or ‘Harry that’ or stopping my schedule for ten minutes to stop and talk with fans or take photos, and they get all grabby and it’s uncomfortable. And sometimes, it happens when I’m running late for a meeting, or, you know, I miss flights because they pack airports and I can’t get to my plane on time. But if I don’t stop, if I say: ‘ _I can’t, not today’_ , I’m an arsehole because I couldn’t stop for ten minutes just to say hello? No, I can’t sometimes, that’s just the way it is,” he rambles. He rubs his eyes, pulls his hair again, and they’re so close in the isolating toilet room that Zayn can almost feel Harry’s frustration as it pours off him in waves. “And, I know, I don’t mean to sound stupid, like, I know I’m very privileged and very lucky to be who I am and live the way I am. But, sometimes, I wish it was just a bit more normal, you know what I mean? Like, I wish people didn’t know who I am. That I was just an unimportant dude in Uni that girls laugh at behind my back or find cute in a club one night where they can’t even see my face. I suppose… more like you.”

Zayn’s brows raise, and he points to himself. “Me? You wanna be more like me." 

“Yeah, I do. It seems…” He sighs and briefly closes his eyes. “It seems like heaven.”

Zayn almost scoffs, does his best to not roll his eyes. “I’m a full-time dad, working a full-time, nine-to-five job. I’m mum and I’m dad, to two other people. I’m twenty-eight years old, and instead of going out and having fun, going on dates, meeting new people, seeing the world, I’m finding grey hairs already because I’m stressed. I am a forty-five-year-old man in my own body. I ache like I’m older, and when I lie down in my bed at night, I actually sigh because it feels so good to just get off my feet. And when I’m not stressing about Jude, or my family, or my job, or the bills, I’m worrying about the things that go wrong and balancing my own mental health because if that topples over the edge, the whole family is fucked,” he says, taking a breath and rubbing his jaw. “You don’t want my life, Harry.”

“But you have a family,” he says, so quietly, so vulnerably, that Zayn stops all action together. “You get to go out with your family without everyone knowing about it.  You don’t have to be someone you’re not. You don’t have to plaster a smile on your face.”

“I have to put a smile on my face every day, rain or shine, for my little boy,” Zayn argues, and he tries to suppress the bubble of frustration he finds surfacing in his chest, but he can’t keep it out of his voice entirely. “Everything I do is for him. I don’t get to be happy or sad, I’m a parent. I have to pretend that life is rainbows and sunshine when it’s actually fucking drizzling all the time. Please, don’t sit there and lecture me about how I’m so free. You may be a slave to business, but I’m a fucking slave to a system that makes it difficult for parent’s like me to financially survive.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry mumbles.

“I know you didn’t. Just adding my two cents,” he pettily says, and ignores Harry’s eyes when they try to meet his.

“I suppose, we all want what we can’t have.”

“Tell me a-fucking-bout it,” Zayn mutters. “Pass me a Bueno?”

Harry tosses it to his chest, and he opens it quickly; almost professionally.

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” Harry says.

“I snack when I’m stressed.”

“That’s not a good habit.”

“Tell it to the chemical imbalance in my head.”

Harry stares at him, daring to smile—his lips that tweak and pull at the side before they’re bitten to prevent going too far—and he grabs the bag of Cheetos and dips in, too.

“We might be here for a while,” he says. “Fans can wander around for a long time, even if they think I’m gone.”

“Seems a bit stupid to wait around for someone who’s already left.”

“I think they’ll hope I’ll come back. They’ll beat themselves up about it if I do come back and they’re not here, so they wait,” he tells. “I’ve been stuck in shops for hours. Sometimes, they’re smart enough to try and sneak through to the backdoors of the warehouses, too, so both entrances are locked down.”

Zayn takes a breath and widens his eyes. “I don’t get it, being so hung up on a celebrity like that. But I guess that’s the point, I don’t have to.”

“I don’t understand it myself, sometimes. But, people show their affection in different ways; in ways that might seem ridiculous or strange to other people. At the end of the day, I owe most of my success to these people, I’ll always be grateful for that, even if it is a bit too much, every now and then.”

“That was very humble of you,” Zayn says in a teasing voice.

“Shut up.” Harry throws a Cheeto at him, and it hits his face in the small proximity between them. He laughs. “You’ve got Cheeto powder on your cheek, now.”

“Why d’you even like those things?” Zayn asks. “Wotsits are better: Jude thinks so, anyway.”

“Well, I didn’t see any, did I? I don’t think they even have them in Poland.”

Zayn rubs at his legs, groaning. “Can I have your jacket? I need to sit down.”

“Why do you need my jacket to sit down?”

“I’m not gonna sit on a dirty toilet floor, am I?”

“Oh, so you want to just sit on my perfectly fine, clean, expensive jacket instead?”

“Yes, Harry. I have OCD. Remember that big thing that we had an in-depth discussion about?”

“Alright, alright,” Harry says. He huffs and shrugs his jacket off, handing it over to Zayn.

He lays it on the floor and sits down, rests his head on the tiled wall and sighs. “That’s better.” He taps the space next to him. “There’s room for you.”

“What makes you think I want to sit next to you?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself. That toilet doesn’t look too comfy. Ceramic isn’t really my pick of nicest things to sit on.”

With one hand still in his bag of Cheeto’s, Harry comes to sit beside Zayn. It’s too close, it feels too close, with Harry’s knees brushing against Zayn’s, their knees when he moves them to the side and back again, their shoulders just clipping. Harry’s legs seem much longer and lankier than his do now they’re sat side-by-side, and his frame—his frame looks so petite compared, his feet just missing the end of Harry’s short jacket as he pulls them up into a foetal position. It crosses his mind for a second—just a second, but it’s long enough—that, if he wanted to, he could probably fit into Harry’s lap.

“I regret my decision,” Zayn says. “You’re so loud when you eat.”

“I’m hungry and eating fast.”

“Lips are supposed to kiss, not smack.”

Harry looks over to him. “Want to try it out?”

Zayn chokes mid-breath. “What?”

“We could try it out. The kissing, I mean.”

He looks to Harry, completely blank-faced, but his heart a hammer in his chest. “I can’t tell whether you’re being serious or not.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s ridiculous,” he coughs out a laugh. “Why would we even do that? That’s… that’s just unnecessary, and would probably, like, cause more awkwardness between us than there already is.”

Harry frowns. “It’s awkward between us?”

“Yeah. Can’t you feel it?” Zayn looks to him, eyes wide and ascertained.

There’s a hesitance in Harry’s countenance that makes him swallow, makes his eyes glaze over the entirety of Harry’s face to find some semblance of a false allusion; because it’s easier to pretend that Harry was just joking than to face the reality that, right now, in this moment, in this small, clinical, enclosed bathroom stall, with the mixture of bright lights and the smell of bleach and the way Harry is looking at him giving him a headache, that Harry was honestly, truly, and un-regrettably thinking about kissing him.

It would be so easy, he thinks, just to reach up right now. To bring their adjacent jaws, pinched and ajar in tension, up close. To just feel the sweep of tendrils against his face, to brush the stubble of his face against Harry’s, and make the world shake with their lips.

It’s everything after that would be complicated, he knows. He knows. How would he look Harry in the eyes again after kissing him, when he so desperately made it clear at the start of the journey that he hated him, that Harry hated him, too—even though, he understands it a spiteful and superficial slur that means nothing, really, anymore in the scheme of things. He clings onto the idea that they still hate each other, that there’s still so much unsaid between them that nothing could ever possibly work, that they aren’t friends in any way at all. He holds on to it tight because the concept as this being as simple and straightforward as it should be is slipping away from his palms, and he doesn’t think he’ll know what to do once it’s gone.

“Anyway,” Zayn says, swallowing, looking away, so Harry can’t stare at the harsh paint on his cheeks anymore, “your breath stinks of Cheetos’, and that’s just fucking awful.”

Harry remains quiet for a thrice before he half-heartedly laughs. “Yeah. You’re probably right,” he says all quiet. “I don’t think I’ve ever been rejected like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Because of my Cheeto breath.”

Zayn doesn’t find it in him to laugh, even though He knows Harry wants him to. He swallows his lips and gives him an awkward smile before looking away again, preoccupying himself with counting the tiles on the wall instead.

“Well, the offer is still there if you want it.”

He pulls a tissue from his pocket and a small pencil, and Zayn watches him almost incredulously.

“Why d’you have a pencil in your pocket?”

“In case I need to write. I always carry one with me as backup.”

“What else you got in there—some mints, maybe? There’s a cheesy fog forming in the room,” Zayn jokes.

Harry breaths out a laugh. “Be quiet.” He rips of a piece of the tissue and brings the pencil to it, going over the words that he’s written multiple times, so it’s clear enough for Zayn to read it. “Here. Don’t worry, it’s not used, just crumpled.”

Zayn takes the tissue from him and reads it:

 

**_ONE (1) FREE KISS TOKEN  
(not to be distributed or burned)_ **

 

He doesn’t keep the smile from his lips; can’t. Zayn thinks it might be impossible to not grin like a fool at the cheesiness of it. After reading over it a few times, with that stupid, ear-to-ear smile on his face he knows Harry can see, makes his cheeks feel even warmer in the stuffy toilet stall, he folds the tissue up so the words are concealed and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Thanks. I’ll flush it down the toilet when you’re not looking.”

“No way. People don’t just flush my gifts down to the toilet. I don’t give them out lightly. Plus, did you nod read the very loose terms and conditions underneath? Can’t destroy it.”

“You said I couldn’t burn it, not that I couldn’t flush it down the toilet.”  

“Oh, the one and only loophole.” He gesticulates faux anguish with his hands. “Well, if you do that, we can’t be friends anymore.”

Zayn looks down to his finger drawing circles in the knee of his jeans. “We’re friends?”

He hears Harry take a breath. “Sure. I don’t think we can travel across, like, a load of different countries, be with each other twenty-four hours a day, and been through what we’ve been through without being friends,” he says. “And, well, I could do with a few more, and you look like an adequate audition.”

“Oh, adequate audition, huh?” Zayn smirks over to him. “When did you sign up for that?”

“The first time you got in my car.” He taps his head. “I mentally check and audition everyone. Though, I’ve got to admit, you were failing terribly to begin with.”

“Harry, that’s… that’s really weird.”

“Oh, shut up.” He waves Zayn off. “I hope the check-out girl understood what I said to her. She might have just told everyone that we’re hiding out in here.”

“I don’t think she’d do that. Considering the fact we looked like we were trying to hide.”

Harry hums. “You’re probably right.”

“How long have we been in here?” Zayn asks.

Harry checks his watch. “About half an hour, I think.”

“D’you think they’d be gone by now?”

“I don’t know. I could check, if you want.”

“We can wait a bit longer.”

Zayn doesn’t mean to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder, but it, sort of, just falls that way. His head feels too heavy, a pounding in the front that’s making his eyes tired, and he shuts them before he realises he’s drifting off.

“Okay,” he hears Harry quietly say. “I’ll check in half an hour, or something. If they’re not gone, we’ll just have to find a way out. We can’t sit in here for the rest of the night. It’s too small and warm and my arse is hurting already from sitting on this hard floor. If push comes to shove, will you be alright with manoeuvring through a crowd of excited fans? Like, with your anxiety and stuff?”

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” he mumbles, yawning.

 

\+ + + +

  

Zayn doesn’t think he’s felt such a durable silence. He stands alone in front of the toilet sink, staring at himself in the mirror that’s all chipped and hazy and rusted at the metal edges. He pulls at his tired eyes, his cheeks, his stressed and tense jaw, and takes a deep breath. He hasn’t even left the room yet, but he feels that distinguishable pull of anxiety in the pit of his stomach that stops him from getting comfortable in his own skin.

A seam bursts at the door as Harry swings it open. He shuts it behind him and rests against the wood, taking a breath for himself and looking to Zayn.

“How many?”

“About thirty or so,” he says, and Zayn heavily suspires, runs a hand through his hair the same time Harry does. “I took photos with everyone who wanted one. And I explained that the reason we’ve been in here is because the crowds make you anxious. I hope you don’t mind.” He has a guilty expression in between his eyes that Zayn puts to rest immediately.

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s a lie. It makes me anxious.”

“But I told them that, because of the anxiety, you know, to not touch you or shout at you or overwhelm you, or anything, so hopefully they listen. You should be alright,” he reassures.

“Yeah,” Zayn says and looks back to the mirror.

He runs a hand through his hair to tame it, the front line gone all shiny and damp from being stuck in the humid room. He wipes his palms on his jeans before walking over to Harry and taking his hand. Harry looks confused for a second—and Zayn isn’t sure how he feels about it, either—but he’s glad there’s no words spoken about it, that it lets it be. He knows there’s no reason to hold Harry’s hand yet, because it’s not like the crowd of grabby and over-excited fans aren’t standing outside of the toilet door, they’re all the way over on the other side of the shop. He does it more because he wants to, really. The comfort of having something to hold onto puts the fear that he’ll get lost in the crowd and left behind to rest in his mind.

“I don’t need a free hand-holding token to do this, do I?” Zayn asks.

Harry laughs. “No. I might have to start doing that, though. Could make a fortune,” he says, and opens the toilet door.

A cacophony of voices start before they even walk outside, a mass of questions and camera flashes and lights. There’s a corridor between a crowd of fans, some being held back by the more calm and respectful of the group, and although the space they have to walk through is narrow enough that his arms brush past the elbows and the hands and the clothes of the fans, Harry was right in saying that none of them try to intentionally grab or touch him. He’s thankful, because despite taking as deep breaths as he can to calm himself and clutching Harry’s hand harder than he thinks is comfortable for them both, it’s almost like he might explode; like he’s a balloon with a delicate film and the raucous noises in his ears threatens to pop him until he wilts away into nothing but a bit of exhausted plastic Harry can shove in his pocket.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks once they’re in the car.

The fans still follow them, surrounding the windows and the rear-end of the car, tapping on the one-way mirrors as if Harry will wind the window down for them. Zayn looks around at them once, and he can’t help but envision one of those scenes in the movies where the zombies swarm around the only surviving victims of an apocalyptic chaos: he feels as though his throat is constricted enough to be in one, that he might be turning; like, for a second, he’s mindless with only an erratic heart grounding him to the leather seat of the car.

“M’fine. I think we just need to get on the road.”

“Okay.”

Harry beeps the car to alert the people around that he’s about to move, and, surprising to Zayn, most them move away. They shout and scream for him as they pull away, back en-route to the hotel, some even daring to run behind the car for a few metres before giving up and waving.

“Don’t they think that’s dangerous?” Zayn asks as he turns back around in his chair.

“Probably, but they don’t care. I’ve had some of them open the boot and try to climb in or try to get on top of the car. But I usually have some sort of security with me. It taught me to always check the boot is locked, if there’s good to take from it.”

“I don’t think I’d get used to summat like this. I’m an anxious mess most of the time, but having to deal with this when I go out somewhere.” Zayn shakes his head. “Couldn’t.”

“The more respectful and mature fans are usually easier to meet. They, sort of, just stand to the side and say hello unless you decide to come over. But some of them go a bit mad. Usually the excitement.”

“Imagine if I was with Jude,” he mumbles; more to himself than anything, but he senses Harry look over to him.

“They’re usually good with kids. They don’t—well, paps are good with kids. They don’t get over-pushy. I wouldn’t take a kid out into a mob of fans, myself.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, takes a steady breath, and pulls his phone out.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Zayn?”

Zayn smiles at the genuine concern in Harry’s voice. “I’m okay. I’m just gonna call Jude.”

“Will he be awake? It’s late.”

Zayn checks the time on his phone. “No, it’s the summer holiday’s now, which means he’ll have energy until, like, nine at least.”

The line picks up but there’s nothing but rustling and Niall’s voice in the background telling Jude to hold the phone to his ear.

“ _Hello_?” Jude’s little voice comes through the line.

“ _Judas, you’re holdin’ the phone the wrong bloody way ‘round_.”

More rustling; Zayn chuckles.

“ _Hello_?” he tries again. _“Helloo?”_

“Did you lose me for a second there, baby?” Zayn asks.

“ _Baba, I miss you,”_ is the first thing he says, though his voice holds no sadness; just an excitement for Zayn.

“I know, baby. I miss you too, lots.”

_“When are you coming home?”_

“Not for a little bit yet. Just over a week.”

Instead of a false cry like he expects, Jude huffs; as if it annoys him _. “Okay, Baba.”_

“You’re not sad?”

_“No.”_

His eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

 _“Yeah, Baba. Uncle Niall told me that it’s very, very, very, im—impar—imter—”_ He hears Niall whisper to him on the other end – _“Important.”_

“Well done, baby,” Zayn coos. “It _is_ very important to Baba, and very sad, too. But that doesn’t mean I love you or miss you any less.”

_“I don’t want you to be sad, Baba. I want you to be happy and smiley and rainbows and kisses and marshmallow all the time!”_

“I wish that could be true.”

_“Is that hairy man still there?”_

Zayn peers his head over in Harry’s direction but doesn’t move his eyes off the darkened road—just to see if he’s listening. And, like he expected, Harry looks over to him with a coy smile to let Zayn know that he is. Of course he is: he’s talking to Jude, and whilst they’ve only spoken once, they seem to be as equally as invested in one another that Harry couldn’t _not_ listen in to a conversation Zayn has with his son, and Jude couldn’t _not_ ask about Harry. They spoke about pizza and films and the embarrassing dad in between, for fuck sake; and Zayn knows his son enough to know he’s fucked.

“Yes, Harry is still here.”

_“What’s he like, Baba?”_

“Well, he’s tall, strong, he has green eyes, and a lot of tattoos’, like me.”

_“Is he kind?”_

Zayn bites his lip. “He is, yeah. Although, he can be a bit grumpy, sometimes.”

Harry makes this noise beside him, like a scoff morphed into a laugh.

_“Can he be my new friend?”_

Zayn’s shoulders unwind, and he takes a moment for his heart to just be, just for his son; his precious, endearing, heart-warming, little son, who fills his days with light even when the sun hides from him.

“I’m sure he’d love to be your friend,” Zayn says and looks over to him. “Wouldn’t you, Harry?”

“I would absolutely love that,” Harry brings his voice up a level so Jude can hear him through the phone. He has this hearty grin on his face that makes him look like a little boy.

“D’you hear that, babe?”

_“Yeah, Baba. I’m dancing!”_

“You’re dancing?” Zayn laughs.

_“My happy dance.”_

“I’m glad you’re happy, baby. I hope you’re always happy.”

 _“Baba, can me and Harry and you and teddy have ice-cream when you get back?”_ he asks, so innocently.

“You mean, like, go out together to get ice-cream?”

 _“Not now, silly,”_ he says all exasperated. _“When you get back.”_

“No, I know what—Jude wants to get ice-cream with you when you get back,” he says to Harry. He lowers his voice and pulls the phone away, Jude’s half-hearted sing-song becoming quieter. “You don’t have to say yes, he’ll probably forget. He’s just excited.”

“Oh. Well, uhm…” he says, eyes between Zayn and the road.

Zayn brings the phone back. “See, baby, Harry is a busy guy. He makes music and has to meet a lot of people, he might not have time to get ice-cream.”

Zayn swallows at Jude’s disappointed ‘ _aww’s’_ through the phone.

“I’ll make time,” Harry says.

He frowns. “Look, don’t feel obligated to say yes. He’s a kid, he’ll forget. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to. I want to meet him. He seems like my type of guy.”

Though he’s uncertain, Zayn only nods. “Okay.”

_“Baba, where did you go?”_

“Hey, Judie. Harry said that he’ll come and get ice-cream with you.”

He lets out a little squeal. _“When can we go, Baba?”_

Zayn rolls his eyes, because here-we-go. “When I get back.”

_“The day you come back?”_

“Probably not, baby. I’ll be tired and I’ll want to spend time with you.”

_“Okay.”_

“Okay.”

_“What about the next day?”_

“It depends if Harry isn’t busy.”

_“Well, is he busy?”_

“I don’t know.”

_“Ask him.”_

“No, Jude.”

_“Ask him, Baba. Pleease.”_

“Jude, I’m not going to ask him when he’s free. He’ll be free when he’s free.”

“August is okay for me,” Harry says.

Zayn shushes him in chastise, and Harry holds his hand up.

_“But, Baba, I need to know when we’re going to get ice-cream.”_

“Why?”

 _“So I can get ready,”_ he says, as if it’s obvious.

“You don’t even brush your teeth in the morning if I don’t tell you to. How long d’you need to prepare to get ice-cream?”

_“I just need to know, Baba.”_

“No, you don’t.”

_“Yes, Baba, I do, I do, I do.”_

“Calm down, Jude.” Zayn frowns. “Did uncle Niall put summat in your juice? You’re so hyper.”

_“What flavour ice-cream does Harry like?”_

“Judas,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t listen. 

_“Does he like strawberry, or chocolate, or camel, or bubbly-gum—”_

“Judas, calm down,” Zayn says; voice strict and demanding, something seldom shown when it comes to his son. But being away from home and not sleeping in his own bed is getting to him, in a more extensive way he only realises now once he’s snapped. At Judas. He feels Harry glance over at him with a presence of surprise, but he ignores him. When the line goes deadly quiet, he sighs. “I’m sorry, Judie, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

 _“I just like ice-cream, Baba,”_ he says in a sad voice.

A bubble of guilt pops inside of his chest. “I know you do, but you’re very hyper. You need to try and calm down, okay, baby?”

He pretend sniffles. _“Okay.”_

“Good. ‘Cause you don’t wanna be a pain in the bum for uncle Niall when he takes you to bed, do you? Or is that the plan?”

_“No.”_

“Are you sure?” he teases.

Jude giggles. _“No, Baba. I’m a good boy.”_

“I know you are.” Zayn smiles to himself and rests his head against the window. “Guess what happened to me and Harry earlier.”

_“What?”_

“Some of Harry’s friends came to see us at a shop, but we didn’t invite them. And we got locked in the bathroom,” he says; fabricates into terms he knows won’t make Jude ask a lot of questions.

Jude gasps. _“With all the toys just outside?”_

“Well, there wasn’t many toys. It was more chocolate and crisps and pop. But we had food of our own. And we were stuck in there so long that we had to split the food in half, and we grew beards, and we were all sweaty. And we had to fight our way out with Harry’s magic laser goodbyes until all the friends had what they wanted.”

_“You’re so brave, Baba.”_

“I know, I know. I’m like Harry’s knight in shining armour.”

Harry’s giving him a look; a ‘ _what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about’ ‘you-held-onto-my-hand-like-a-scared-puppy-the-whole-time’_ look, and Zayn playfully sticks his tongue out in soft remonstrance.

_“So, Harry was your princess?”_

“Yes, he was.”

_“Did you kiss?”_

“What—no, no we didn’t kiss,” Zayn quickly corrects. Harry looks over to him with a smirk, which he challenges with a ‘ _stop it’_ frown. The tissue in his pocket sets alight and makes his side go all fuzzy. “Why would we kiss?”

_“Did you make a baby? Did you get married with Haribo rings?”_

“Jude, no. We didn’t get married, and we didn’t have a baby. Two men can’t get pregnant and have a baby. Especially not in two hours.”

_“But you said Harry was your princess, and you were his knight. Princesses and knights get married and ride off into a sunset.”_

“No—okay, well, then, he was my prince. I was his knight, and he was my prince.”

_“Can princes and knights get married, Baba?”_

Zayn looks over at Harry from the corner of his eye and back to the darkness outside his window. “Of course they can. If they want to. So could a princess and a lady knight. I have told you this before.”

_“Can girls be knights?”_

“Yes. Y’know, they probably make better knights than boys.”

_“So, Harry was your prince, and you were a knight, but you didn’t kiss and ride off into the sunset and have a baby and buy a castle?”_

“No. We’d have a good job doing that, it’s already dark here.”

_“But it’s supposed to be a fairy-tale.”_

“It’d only be like a fairy-tale if me and Harry were boyfriend’s, Jude,” he says.

When Harry shifts, it hits him only then that the conversation has taken a swift and awkward turn, and Harry is only, really, getting half of the conversation for context, and there’s not even a metre of space between them, sharing the same air for breaths, and there’s no real way to escape the tension Jude is so innocently providing except looking out into the inky space outside the car window and taking a steady breath. Zayn takes a breath and paints on the window with his fingers, stopping only when he realises he’s drawing love hearts.

_“Why can’t you be boyfriend’s?”_

“Because we can’t, Jude, okay?”

_“Uncle Niall said you might.”_

His mouth parts. “Uhm, what?”

_“Uncle Niall said—”_

“No, I heard what you said, baby,” he interrupts before Jude can say it again, because he knows the volume is loud enough on his phone for Harry to hear if he listened closely, and Zayn has a feeling he is. “Why’d he say that to you?”

_“‘Cause he said you sounded happy.”_

Zayn sighs and rolls his head back onto the head rest. “Well, he’s wrong, okay? Don’t listen to your uncle, he’s being silly. I’m still just your daddy, alright?”

 _“Okie dokie, Baba,”_ he says and yawns.

“You tired, darling?”

 _“Yeah. I had a long day,”_ he said. _“Nanny took me to get some new swimming trunks ‘cause you shrunk mine.”_

“I didn’t mean to,” he defends.

_“And then we went swimming, and then I got home and got in the bath. I got out of water and back into water, Baba. It was **mad**.” _

Zayn smiles all big, his eyes thinned and crinkled with love at the edges. “That _is_ mad, huh?”

_“And then nanny made us Jogan rosh—”_

“Rogan josh,” Zayn corrects.

_“—And it was good, Baba. Nanny put some in the freezer, so you can have some, too!”_

“See? Nanny’s the best, isn’t she?”

 _“Yep,”_ he says, so definite. _“And then, I watched the Lion King and did my colouring, and now it’s time for bed.”_

“You had an even busier day than I did. I bet you’re super-duper tired.”

_“I am, Baba. I really am.”_

“Are you going to hit the bed and—” he lets out a pretend snore.

Jude laughs. _“Baba, you’re so silly.”_

Both Harry and Zayn chuckle along. “Only for you.”

_“I love you.”_

“I love you, too, baby. I’m gonna let you go now, okay? Let you get ready for bed, ‘cause it’s late. And me and Harry are nearly at the hotel, so we’ll be going beddy-byes soon, aswell.”

_“Okay, Baba. Are you gonna ring me tomorrow, too? ‘Cause I might miss you too much.”_

“Of course I will.”

_“Okay.”_

“Okay. I love you, meri jaan. Millions.”

_“I love you, too, Baba. Goodnight.”_

“Goodnight, my little superman.”

The line goes quiet before Zayn can ask to speak to Niall, and he brings the phone away from his ear. He sends Niall a text.

Z: _I’m gonna lay the fuck into you when I speak to you next time._

 

When he doesn’t get a response by the time they reach the hotel, he leaves it and stops expecting a new text to come through.

“D’you want me to help with the bags?” Zayn asks.

“No, no, you go ahead. You can go and check in at the reception if you want. I’m just gonna make a phone call, then I’ll grab the bags and be in,” he says.

“Okay,” he says, slow and teasingly suspicious.

It takes him all but two minutes to check in, after pointing to Harry just outside the doors and confirming that he is actually sharing a room with Harry Styles for the fourth night in a row. But those two minutes become ten, fifteen, and Harry is still on the phone. Zayn can see him from outside the glass, pacing and looking all heated as he talks fast on the phone, and each time the music in the foyer dims down into the next song and there’s those few seconds of quiet—where the only other sounds are the receptionists clicking away behind the desk or the elevator reaching the ground floor—Zayn just catches Harry’s harsh and demanding tone, if he tries hard enough, before it disappears again. He doesn’t know; maybe he’s imagining it.

He can’t help but wonder what got him all aggravated in such a small amount of time. In the car, he seemed fine; he seemed content. Now, he’s anything but. He’s the Harry that Zayn first saw back in his boss’ office; all riled up and impatient and pulling his hair as if it were a stress-ball.

Harry enters with rushed feet five minutes later, face flushed and hair lost its style and his cheeks puffed up as he exhumes distress.

Zayn stands from the chair he’s found himself relaxed in as Harry approaches. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, I just—I was speaking to my manager, telling him about what happened at that station,” he tells.

“Oh.”

“Apparently, he already knew. Which means fans have already been talking about it online, which means that publishing companies know, which means articles. So, it’s a bit of a fucked-up mess, for someone who was supposed to keep a low profile,” Harry says, a tension in his voice that strains his neck as he speaks. “I’ll be surprised if people don’t know what hotel we’re staying at by the morning.”

“Well, how could they know that?”

He scoffs. “You’d be amazed at what fans can find out in such short spaces of time. I mean, look at this.” He gestures his hands at nothing in particular, but Zayn can’t help but feel it’s at him. “We’ll have to hope for the fucking best.”

Zayn looks around. “Where are the bags?”

Harry groans and massages his head. “I left them in the _fucking_ car. I’ll go get them.”

“No, it’s okay,” Zayn says, grabbing the top of Harry’s arm before he can move away. “I’ll get them. Just head up to the room, I’ll meet you up there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just give me the keys, it’s fine.”

Harry shifts the keys out of his pocket. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Zayn.”

“Just get in the shower, or summat. De-stress.”

By the time Zayn gets to the room, hauling all the bags over the floor with a huff, Harry is already at the window, shirt off, balcony windows open, a half-smoked blunt in his hand that Zayn can smell around the room. He shuts the door hastily behind him, with a slam so Harry knows he’s here.

Harry looks back to him, and the TV screen playing idle news in the background exhibits his eyes all red around the pupils already.

“Jesus, Harry. This isn’t what I meant by de-stress,” he says.

“Well, it’s what _I_ meant.”

“Did you have that on you?”

“Yeah.” He takes another drag and leans back again, looks out over the city. “I was going to suggest we smoked it in that toilet, but I thought you’d be opposed.”

“Well, you were right, for a change,” he says, and comes to sit down next to Harry. “Why have you only got your boxers on, Harry?”

“You’re lucky. I usually strip naked. But, for the benefit of you, I didn’t. I thought I’d be decent and keep my cock from swinging about everywhere.”

“Cheers for that.” Zayn groans and stretches out. “Being in that car all day is doing nothing for my back.”

“Weed’ll help,” Harry says, offering him the blunt. “Here.”

“Is your solution to everything drugs?” Zayn asks, but takes the blunt between his lips and takes a drag, anyway. He holds it in, laying his head back and relaxing, and releases the smoke. “Can’t say this isn’t good, though." 

“Most things I turn to drugs for. I’ve been working on it.”

“This tastes like expensive shit.”

“Not really. They probably just charged me more ‘cause they knew who I was.”

“Probably just ‘cause it’s from your pocket. Smells like you and shit.”

Harry looks at him weird. “Does this get to your head quick, or something?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I don’t do stuff like this anymore. I’m too busy being a dad.”

He takes his last drag and passes it back over to Harry, who takes it greedily between his lips.

“I hope there aren’t camera’s,” Zayn says.

“There probably are, but who gives a fuck?”

“Me. I don’t wanna get locked up in a different country.” He glances around. “Nice room, though. It’s got those fancy biscuits on the side. Must be four stars, at least.”

“Four-and-a-half,” Harry corrects.

“Close enough.” Zayn slumps down in the seat and closes his eyes. “I’m zonked, man. I could sleep for, like, sixteen hours straight.”

“The last time I was in Poland, I had a whole room full of guys—just invited them up into my hotel room, and I watched them all suck each other’s dicks,” Harry says out of nowhere. “Mine, too, like, _obviously_ I wouldn’t invite that many men into my room and _not_ have my cock sucked, you know what I mean?”

Zayn doesn’t even flinch at the vulgarity, doesn’t even open his eyes; whether it’s the inebriation trickling into his veins like honey down a glass and making his fingers all fuzzy, or whether he’s just gotten used to Harry—he’s okay with both. With the weed and with Harry, he means. In fact, the two together seem highly amusing in his mind, and he doesn’t know why—perhaps it’s because he’s high and it’s the first time in months a breath of a blunt has ghosted past his lips—but he looks over to Harry and finds his lips all rhubarb and recently dampened by his tongue, and he, sort of, just wants to reach his fingers out and touch them. Not kiss them, no: just touch them, just to see how soft they are, how they’d bounce back before his fingertip had time to move away, to feel the glossiness of them underneath the pad of his finger and see what it tastes like as he brings it back to his own lips to try.

He closes his eyes again when Harry looks below the view and back into the room; before he can get carried away and his hands leave the arm rest of the chair and ruin the dainty peace they’ve found.

“You’ve not got anything to say about that?” Harry asks.

“About what—a load of polish guy’s sucking your tiny cock? No, I haven’t.”

“Sounds like you’re deflecting, mate.”

Zayn peaks an eye open and smirks at Harry’s goading expression. “My cock is fine, and absolutely above average, and big enough to make a baby. I have proof, by the way.”

“You know the average size cock is six inches, right?”

“I wouldn’t care if my cock was four inches long. Plus, the size of your cock grows by the amount of love you put into it.”

Harry’s laugh begins with a burst of energy and fades out into a chuckle. “That’s the, like—I’ve never heard that one before.”

“It’s true. The more love you put into it, the better it feels, so the size of your cock doesn’t matter,” Zayn says, and he’s so certain about it, sounds so sure, when really he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s fucking talking about, that he makes himself laugh, too.

“I don’t know whether I agree with that one or not. If I did, it’d probably just be the weed.”

“You don’t have to, I know I’m right,” Zayn says. “Anyway, it’s all in the hips and the hands.” He opens his eyes and thinks about it for a moment. “Actually, we’re not having this discussion.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re both high and we’re not having this conversation.”

“Fine,” Harry says, and yawns. “I think I’m gonna get into bed.” He puts the blunt out on the glass table beside him and walks back into the room. It’s quiet for a thrice, with the life of the city below blowing through like a rustle of leaves before it disappears again. “Are you coming?” Harry calls.

Zayn looks behind him, to where Harry is, untucking the quilt and throwing it off the end of the bed, leaving only the thin sheet on top.

“You mean, like, in bed? With you?”

“Yeah?” Harry looks at him as if it’s obvious. “Come on, we’ll get up _super_ early in the morning.”

Zayn groans and drops his shirt to the side of the bed. “Why’ve we gotta be up _super_ early?”

“To be on schedule.”

“I should’ve guessed that one.”

“And to also outsmart any fans or paps lurking about. Fuckers.”

“Right.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asks as Zayn starts to climb onto the bed.

He pauses, confused. “Getting into bed.”

“Why are you still wearing your jeans?”

Zayn looks down at himself. “Because we’re getting into bed together.”

“What are we—prepubescent? Take your trousers off, Zayn. You’ll sweat your balls off,” Harry says, and climbs in, shifts his legs so they’re just under the sheet. “Can’t believe you’re making a big deal out of it. We slept in the same bed the second night, half-naked. And I was the one moaning about it. Look how the tables turn.”

Zayn slowly shifts his trousers down his legs; self-conscious and unsure all of a sudden. It’s not that he’s insecure—he’s not. But Harry is staring at him as he does it and he feels like he’s centre-stage, with the lights blaring down on him and making him sweat, and he’s never liked being the centre of anything.

He adjusts his boxers and climbs onto the bed as fast as he can and lies down on his back, arms across his abdomen.

“The first night we slept in the same bed, your arms were around me when I woke up.”

Harry turns on his side to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think it was something important to tell you.”

“Well, if it made you uncomfortable, then you should’ve.”

“No, no, it didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Zayn reassures. “It was just… it was nice, actually.”

“Oh.”

“But, I didn’t like you at the time, I was annoyed at you, so I didn’t know how to feel about it. But… it was nice. Just to wake up with someone there instead of being alone ‘cause I was missing home. Missing Jude.”

“Are you missing him now?”

“Of course I am. I miss him every day. I miss him when I’m at work, so this is… it’s really hard for me,” he says, and does his best not to well up.

“Well… do you wanna cuddle again?” Harry asks, his eyes all wide; hesitant, perhaps.

And, well… he looks so hopeful and diffident right then, right in front of Zayn now, only for just a second, that Zayn feels like he can’t say no. Not because of what he wants or what he feels like he needs, not how much he’s missing Jude or Niall or just the touch of a familiar human, but because Harry looks just as desperate for it, too, and there’s a type of obligation swimming around in his mind that just tells him to do it. Because of Harry. Just right now. Not tomorrow night. Or the next night. Just tonight, because he might get cold, because he might wake up afraid and alone if he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he whispers, and shuffles in closer.

Harry pulls him in the rest of the way, his arms curling around Zayn’s waist like a cobra and pulling him in. His head falls into the dip of Harry’s skin, where his shoulder meets his neck, and he places his hand on Harry’s chest, his other tucked underneath him, and he knows it’ll go dead soon but he’s comfortable the way they are. Their legs intertwine ever so slightly, just so their feet become a tangle and their knees touch, and Zayn can still smell the lingering scent of Harry’s bodywash fading over his skin.

Zayn pushes his head up and Harry moves away so they can look at each other.

“This is nice, huh?”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles.

“I’ve gotta be honest, I usually just cuddle a teddy,” Harry admits with a shy, dimpled smile. “He’s called Bear.”

“You sound like Jude. He has a teddy called Teddy. Can’t sleep without him.”

“Yeah?”

Zayn nods. “One time, we went to visit my family down in Bradford and we forgot Teddy. He cried and cried until, like, three in the morning. And by that point he was too exhausted to care, so he fell asleep on my head.”

Harry chuckles. “On your head?”

Zayn does, too. “Yeah. He was clung to my hair, crying, laid out on my pillow. He was only two, tiny little thing. I had a headache all day the next day, with the five-hour straight bursts of crying mainly being in my ears. I blocked it out and fell asleep eventually, which is awful, but I was so exhausted, and I’d wake up when he grabbed my nose too tight or poked me in the eye. Gives me a bit of a headache just thinking about it.”

“I’d love a kid.”

“Trust me, they always seem better than they are.”

Whilst Zayn laughs, Harry remains quiet.

“Really?”

Zayn looks to him, lips no longer smiling. “No. Sometimes, it can feel like it, especially on the days where you wanna take a break and the world doesn’t let you. Sometimes, when you want to put yourself first, because you need to, and you can’t. Sometimes, when it’s really tough, and you wish there was a ticket you could buy to just leave them somewhere. It’s really difficult. But the good times, when they say their first word, or walk their first step, or draw their first picture, their first day at school, their first award, the first time they say, ‘ _I love you’_ …” Eyes glossed with adoration, Zayn shakes his head. “They’re all worth it. There’s nothing purer and more certain in this world than the love a child has for their parents. There really isn’t. You feel like you don’t ever need another love ‘cause it’s enough, ‘cause you’ve got them, and they’ll get you through.”

“Is that why you’re, you know, still single?” Harry asks. His grip on Zayn’s waist falls loose, but his fingers dig in tighter.

“Yes and no. It’s a complicated one.”

“Well, explain.”

Zayn exhales a laugh and lays his head down on the pillow, Harry following. “Okay, well, uhm… I suppose, I’m scared of scaring Jude. Of confusing him or upsetting him, y’know, if I bring someone else into the house. Explaining to him my relationship with someone else would be a difficult thing to do, ‘cause he’s so young and he doesn’t fundamentally understand how relationships work yet. Like, if I met a woman, I worry that he’d think that was his mommy, or if I met a guy he’d think that was his new daddy. And then, like, what if it doesn’t work and he gets attached to someone and it upsets him ‘cause they aren’t there anymore? He already doesn’t have a stable motherly figure. He has me, Niall, our family, that’s it. He’s got one half-arsed friend at school, and his parents are fucking racist, so they don’t let him come over and play.” Zayn closes his eyes and suspires. “It’s so much more difficult having a relationship when you’re a single, full-time dad.”

“Do you think that, maybe, this is a little bit about you, too?” Harry asks; hesitant and sleepily curious. “Like, do you think you’re scared of hurting Jude, so you try your best not to?”

“Yeah, of course it is. I know it’s partly on me. Meeting new people is scary, especially when there’s an innocent child in the mix. And, yeah, I suppose, I am more scared than Jude would be about it. That’s my anxiety; of it not working out. Or, better yet, finding someone that would put up not only with me and my anxiety and my OCD and my habits, but someone else’s child, too. It almost seems… impossible, to think that there’s someone so understanding and patient out there who would be the other piece to my very difficult, very complex puzzle.”

“I think anyone who couldn’t see how amazing your son is, and how kind and wonderful you are as a person, wouldn’t be worth a minute of your time; a second,” Harry says, almost whispers, and the pad of his thumb draws circles into the space just above his hip.

Zayn tries to hide the quickening of his breath between a faux sniffle and a deep sigh, bites the inside of his cheek to stop his smile, and thanks which one of them it was that decided to leave the light off, so Harry can’t see the sun on his cheeks.

He doesn’t know why he does it; he doesn’t. He has no reason to, really. They’re close, they’re connected, but they still have their own space, to move and to breathe. But, in a second of a moment, it doesn’t feel like enough to Zayn. The proximity between their jaws and their faces and their lips feels like an empty, gaping hole between them, a creep of long, thorny fingernails slithering up the surface of his exposed back, and he leans forward to stop it. Not to Harry’s lips, no—they’re far too warm and pink and inviting to ever be good for him, for it to ever be a good decision—but for his cheek. His soft-skinned, supple cheek reddened by the warmth of the room.

And Harry must know he’s going to do it because he lifts his head up from the pillow and tilts his jaw in a way that implies he does, that he wants it, too. He lets Zayn’s lip claim the ground of his skin for only a thrice, and he pulls away, leaving a lineation of wet, moistened lips behind. It’s gentle, and soft, and chaste, and affectionate: a thank you that only he could repay.

“Does that count as my one kiss token?” Zayn whispers.

Harry’s eyes flutter open, dazed, finding Zayn; focused.

“No,” he says, and Zayn could swear he sounds as breathless as he is. “It’s a token for the lips, not the cheek. You can keep it for another time, might need it more.”

“Right.”

Zayn pulls his head back down into Harry’s chest, and Harry brings his to lay above, so Zayn can feel the warmth of his jaw and his neck as he swallows almost as if he’s nervous. There’s a hammer in Harry’s heart as Zayn presses his ear to it, a harmonious synchronisation of his own, and he wonders whether he did that. If he made Harry Styles’ heart go all manic in his chest, make his breath all frantic and unsure. If, when he hears it calm down and he presses his fingers across Harry’s chest, over the lineation of a tattoo, pushing a little too close to the sensitive peak of his nipple, and Harry’s heart picks up again and his breath becomes too heavy of someone who isn’t bothered by the touch, it’s him.

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe Harry is already asleep and it’s just a daft inclination in his mind he’s feeding too much. If the whole thing thrills him or frightens him, he’s not sure. He just knows that the thoughts shouldn’t be there, and they are, and as he closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep, he only feels them soaking in more. Like a tension in the muscle as a needle slips in, or pushing against the currents of a vast body of water that tides against you. Like a thought you give too much power in attempting to drive away.

Harry’s lips ghost through the unruliness of Zayn’s air, and his toes curl around.

“Goodnight, Zayn,” he says, already half asleep.

“Goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams.”

Zayn watches the sun paint over the white-washed walls of the hotel room before he falls asleep in Harry’s arms. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed these chapters have mostly ended in hotel rooms, with beds and implicit, awfully hidden scenic lighting, but I suppose that's where the (best smut happens). 
> 
> Please, leave me comments! tell me what you thought of the chapter; who your favourite character is, your favourite scene so far, your favourite interaction, songs or art or media that reminds you of the story. Ways you think I or the story could improve? Even what you predict will happen next. Tell me, tell me, tell me--your feedback is paramount not only to my writing but to me (bc i'm a sensitive bitch, give me love please). 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your lovely comments! My tumblr is (stonekisses) if you would like to follow me there. i'm quite awful at being consistently active, especially when I'm at a keyboard and wallowing most of the time, but sometimes I reblog zarry happenings and fic recs and pretty things, so you're more than welcome to have a look. 
> 
> (excusably lazily edited.)


	4. and those heavy days in june

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought there was going to be four chapters but there's going to be five. surpriiiise! 
> 
> [apologies for typos!]

 

Zayn can count on one hand the amount of words they say to one another before noon. ‘A good morning’ at breakfast and a ‘sorry’ as they bump into each other as they exit the hotel. Meagre acts like passing cigarettes to one another or buying drinks and food—Harry has a good idea of what Zayn’s diet consists of and knows he isn’t a fussy eater—are satiated with nods of the head or thumbs up or awkward smiles passed between them.

He lets Harry have full control of the radio, lets him roll the windows up and turn the AC on instead, even though it makes Zayn cold and he grabs for his jacket in the backseat. He calls Niall and chastises him for his behaviour, and even talks to Jude; except, this time, he feels awkward knowing that Harry can hear his conversation, and he turns the volume down to the point where he struggles to even hear what’s being said on the other end of the line. He even waits until Harry jumps out at a petrol station to refill just so he can talk to himself; just so he can hear his own voice and fill the car with anything other than shit radio pop and the robotic voice of the GPS.

During a few minutes somewhere lost between 1 and 2pm, Harry opens his mouth to speak but finds himself wordless. Just those little intakes of breath that let Zayn know he was going to speak but, whatever words lingered on his tongue, he decided against them. It happens again at 4; only this time, when he hears Harry’s mouth open and that short, garbled sound appear from his throat, Zayn turns his head the other way, out of the window, to let Harry know he isn’t interested; to let him know not to bother, to waste the breath on trying.

It’s too awkward; far too awkward—Zayn gets that he’s probably making it so much more complicated than it has to be, and his intolerance of talking about last night is probably only furthering Harry’s fear of it, too—if there is any—but he can’t look at Harry’s cheek without his lips tingling or his own cheeks catching fire, without being reminded of how idiotically he acted.

Zayn doesn’t know what overcame him last night—maybe the weed was dodgy, or Harry’s hands were too cold, he doesn’t fucking know—but he’s ready to put it past him and get to Russia as quickly as he can, even if that means continuing this cumbersome lull of minimal conversation with Harry the rest of the way.

Of course, the universe doesn’t love him that much.

_“Hold on… you kissed him?”_

Zayn shushes him from the other side of the phone, even though he knows Harry can’t hear from inside the car. Zayn paces around the grassy area, overlooks the fields as he holds the phone to his ear. There’s a cigarette that alternates between his lips and his fingers, and he wills for his chest to not feel as heavy with each breath, to be rid of these notions swirling around that shouldn’t be there: about home, about the funeral… about Harry.

“It wasn’t…” begins in a quiet voice but trails off. He rubs his forehead. “It wasn’t a kiss like that, it was just—it was, like, a cheek kiss. It was just a cheek kiss. I’m being fucking stupid about it. We both are. Acting like children—mostly me.”

_“Well, did it mean anythin’?”_

Zayn fumbles with his tongue for a second. “No, no it didn’t mean anything.”

_“There was a pause there, mate.”_

“I was just figuring out what to say. Don’t read into it.”

_“So, if it was just a kiss, why is it such a big deal?”_

“Because it shouldn’t have happened, Ni. It’s just awkward now. Like, who sleeps in a bed and cuddles with and kisses the guy who tried to get them fired?” Zayn sighs, continues making a shiny line in the grass as he slowly walks backwards and forwards.

_“To be fair, you didn’t exactly say amazin’ things about him, did ya?”_

“That’s not the point I’m making, Niall,” he bites. “And, whilst we’re at it, don’t go ‘round telling my kid that I might come back with a new boyfriend. It confuses him and it’s not appropriate.”

_“Well, first of all, I was bein’ sarcastic, he just misunderstood it. But, by the sound of it … I might not’ve been wrong.”_

Zayn goes to speak but shuts his mouth. He’s got nothing to say to that, really, and he’s not sure whether he wants to. He’s confused, so confused, and he doesn’t want to have to think about it, but Harry is a flared, lurid light sat beside him that he can’t ignore, and he feels like he’s waiting to be burned.

“It’s not like that. It was just a cheek kiss, I didn’t even use my token,” he says, mumbling.

_“What?”_

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

_“Is there somethin’ else goin’ on here that I should know about?”_

“No.”

_“It sounds like there is.”_

“No, Niall, there isn’t, I just” – He suspires heavily – “Things are getting really complicated, and I don’t know why.”

_“Well, what’s makin’ it complicated?”_

“I don’t know, Niall, just… _things_. Things that have been said, things that should’ve been said, stuff that’s been done, conversations we shouldn’t have had. We’ve, sort of, got to know each other.” He scoffs. “It’s not even been a week.”

_“It’s been six days.”_

“Exactly.” Zayn throws his hands up in the air. “It’s fucking stupid.”

 _“I think this is an over-reaction,”_ Niall says _. “Unless there’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me, but you told me there was nothin’, so I’m going to assume there’s nothin’. ‘Cause you said there was nothin’.”_

Zayn brings his teeth to the inside of his cheek and bites down, looks around the expanse of the fields because it’s easier than looking behind him, where he knows Harry is sitting, waiting patiently for him.

“There’s…” He huffs. “There’s nothing. It’s difficult to discern what is what when there’s so much going on. Like, the closer we get to Russia the more anxious I’m getting, the more I feel myself clinging to stuff for support. I dream of Jude, and my family, and being back home. And, well, Harry is just there. And it’s—it’s not because it’s Harry, ‘cause I would be the same if it were anyone else here,” Zayn says, even though he’s uncertain of it, himself. “It just happens to be Harry. And he drove me absolutely mad for the first few days, but now… I don’t know, he’s decent, and it’s some comfort for me. _He’s_ some comfort for me.”

 _“Right,”_ is all Niall says.

Zayn swears he can hear him smirking. Or frowning—fuck, he doesn’t know.

“We’ve just started being more honest with each other, and I’ve found that I actually really like him Ni,” he admits. “He’s a nice guy, he’s different than I thought he was.”

_“Different from the guy who tried to get you fired?”_

There’s a pause: Zayn takes a breath.

“Is it mad if I say yes?”

_“No. First impressions ain’t the end-all, be-all. I just don’t know how well you could’ve gotten to know this guy in, like, a week.”_

“I’m not pretending like I know the guy completely, but from what I’ve seen, I can’t deny that I like it, that I like him,” Zayn mumbles. He brings the cigarette back to his lips. “He’s just—he was an asshole at first, but he’s, kind of, being what I need right now, y’know, just a decent human being, sensitive, kind. And I don’t know whether that’s an intentional thing or not, but… I feel myself really drawn to him. Like a fucking magnet, or some stupid shit.”

Niall is quiet on the other end of the line, and Zayn brings the phone away from his ear to check the call, to see if it’s still going.

_“You don’t just think this is, maybe, you latchin’ onto somethin’ ‘cause you’re—well, you’re not emotionally unstable, but your emotional stability has definitely been challenged by all this. And, d’you think that’s why you want to, I don’t bloody know, touch this guy and kiss him? Like, if that attraction is, y’know—”_

“ _Woah_ , woah,” Zayn interrupts. “I didn’t say anything about attraction.”

 _“Well, you kissed him, on your own accord, so I’m assuming’ there’s some kinda attraction there.”_ The line goes quiet. _“M’not sayin’ that’s sexual attraction, or whatever type of attraction you think I’m thinkin’ of, but it’s there. You wouldn’t’ve kissed him otherwise.”_

Zayn only hums.

“So… so, you think I’m, like, _sexually_ attracted to him?”

 _“You’re the only one who knows that, babe. I mean, he is a nice-lookin’ bloke,”_ Niall says. _“I wouldn’t blame ya if you wanted that with him.”_

“I’m not saying I want that,” Zayn defends quickly.

_“I know you’re not, mate, that’s not—what I’m saying is, if you want to fuck this guy, it’ll stay between me and you. What happens in Russia stays in Russia.”_

“I didn’t ring you to ask you if it was a good idea to fuck the guy or not.”

_“Then, what did you ring me for?”_

Zayn falls quiet. He watches the birds fly past in the setting sky, smoking on his cigarette to pass the obligation for words, and glances back to find Harry’s observing eyes on him before he turns back around with a quick breath and a surge of acquiescence in his chest. He wraps the bottom of his boot around the end of the cigarette as he drops it into the ground.

 _“Hello?”_ Niall says. _“Zayn?”_

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna go figure this all out,” he says, swallowing. “And then I’m gonna call you back. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes.”

Zayn doesn’t give Niall time to answer back, ending the call and slipping his phone back into the jeans of his pocket. He takes strides back to the car, climbing into the front in haste, before the rush of courage dimmers down in his chest and prohibits him from doing anything at all. And, he thinks, in this moment, this is exactly what he wants to do; not diluted by hesitation or deterred by his anxiety. This is just him. It’s just Zayn. Just Zayn and Harry in this car, on the road to nowhere, with no one with each other and a few bags they call their own.

“Hey, did you sort everything out—”

Zayn throws the tattered piece of inked paper into Harry’s lap, reaches over, brings his hands across Harry’s cheeks, and pulls him in before he can think about it. Harry stays still, confused—Zayn can almost feel the frown on Harry’s face, below his fingertips—and eventually kisses him back. Their tongues pull together at the tips, just a flick and a taste of sweetness on Harry’s mouth, something almost bitter that brings him in further.

When Harry’s hand winds around Zayn’s waist and brings him in closer, Zayn lets himself stay there for just a few seconds more, just to feel the warmth of Harry’s touch like he did the night before, the touch that eases the permanently tight flexion in his shoulders, sighing, before he pulls away.

Harry is almost gasping, rhubarb, deliciously pink, kissed lips that part for hard intakes of breath to catch up with the moment. They’re silent for a minute or two, with even the road beside them being driven by silence, no cars passing by to eavesdrop on the scene. It’s just them. Zayn strokes Harry’s cheek with his thumb, and finds his fallen, far-too-long hair being pulled back behind his ear by cold and dexterous fingers that make him shiver.

He re-approaches Zayn’s lips, just for one last soft and delicately chaste kiss, and he moves back. His arm remains latched around Zayn’s waist, and Zayn finds his hands moving from Harry’s cheeks and circling around to the nape of his neck, playing with the little pieces of hair that curl over there.

“I thought it was an opportune time to use my token,” Zayn quietly says. 

His eyes are still half-shut, focused, in a lackadaisical way, on the open curtain of Harry’s shirt where he’s popped the buttons too low. He focuses in on Harry’s breath to try and calm himself, but their hearts seem to be both as erratic as each other.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers in reply. “You’re welcome. For the token. I’m glad I gave it to you.”

Zayn smiles and strokes Harry’s neck, and he lowers his head so they’re cheek-to-cheek, ear-to-mouth, and so close that Harry’s breath warms his cooled skin.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry kisses his cheek. “You know, I’ve come up with a system, just now.”

“Yeah?”

He hums. “It’s a kiss token point system. It’s amazing.”

Zayn moves away and looks him in the eyes, and he finds them so green and so bright and so ecstatic with humour that Zayn smiles like he’s a little boy. A little boy who’s got a crush on a boy much, much older and capable than him.

“Go on, then. Tell me how it works.”

“Well, I haven’t figured out all the details yet, ‘cause we didn’t kiss for that long. I didn’t have enough time,” he says, and Zayn rolls his eyes. “But, you can earn different kiss tokens by doing different things.”

“Like?”

“Uhm…” Harry pierces his lips and looks out the window for a second. “Well, driving can earn you kiss points—one token for one hour of driving. Bonus points if you volunteer driving in traffic.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Points for compliments, or general deeds. For example, passing me my coffee when I’m driving, or navigating the GPS, or doing something that I can’t do with my hands at a time of need,” he says. “Points for smoking weed or picking the right side of the bed to sleep on. Bonus points if we cuddle, and extra points if you take the elevator with me. Oh, also, points if I end up being wrong about something you’re right about. Extra points if I still tell you I’m right, when I know I’m wrong.”

“So, basically, most things,” Zayn says, shaking his head.

Harry smirks. “No. There could be plenty of other things—there probably will be, I’ll think of them later.”

Zayn moves back into his seat—he doesn’t really want to, and even Harry feels hesitant to let him go, but his back hurts in that position (and Harry mocks him about being an old man). He hums, rubs his fingers across his lips, and looks to Harry, who’s staring at him like he’s the sweetest candy. He shifts in his chair.  

“So, what are the deductions?”

“The what?”

“If there’s points to be earned, there’s points to lose. Deductions,” he says. “Have you never seen Harry Potter?”

“How did you find a loophole in this already?”

“It’s not a loophole, it’s just a question.”

“Well, the aim of the system was to be able to kiss you more in a way that would make you feel comfortable,” Harry says, and his cheeks tinge like they’ve been caressed too gently, almost as if he’s caught himself out. “It’s counter-intuitive to make deductions.”

Zayn looks down to his lap, picks at the skin around his nails, and tries to suppress that little smile on his lips that really shouldn’t be there by biting down on his tongue. “You want to kiss me again?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry mutters in an unsure voice, shrugging. “It was really nice, kissing you, I mean. I’ve wanted to for a little bit, especially last night when you kissed me. When you kissed me on the cheek. But, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know you’re not into the whole ‘ _intimacy with a dead-end_ ’ thing.”

“Well… what do _you_ think this is, then?”

Harry frowns. “What—what do you mean?”

“Well, d’you think that this is… something _more_?” Zayn asks.

He isn’t sure whether he’s asking for reiteration or a true answer until he says it. But he should have known, really—that his answer is entirely dependent on Harry’s, that he’ll twist how he thinks and how he feels around what Harry has to say, because that’s easier than having two opposing ideas of what this is between them that will make the situation even more awkward.

He wasn’t expecting Harry to look so caught by the question.

Harry fumbles with his tongue for a second, and sighs. “I—I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t think that you were into that, sort of, pointless sexual tension thing, so I thought that… If you—if you did do something, like kiss me, then it would be because, you know…”

“Right.” Zayn swallows and looks away. “Well, I mean, it was…” He trails off and takes a breath. “It was just a kiss. And I—just to clear things up, y’know, it was just that. I didn’t want things to be awkward, and I wanted to see—I thought that by kissing you again, for real this time, then it would clear things up about the way that I felt, or thought is a better way to put it. I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but for me it was.”

“So, it didn’t mean anything? Anything other than… just a kiss?” he asks.

Zayn closes his eyes and tries to clear the notion of hope he thought he heard in Harry’s voice from his mind, before it can convince him of something else that would screw this up even more. He closes his eyes and he feels Harry’s arm back around his waist, his breath skimming back down the skin of Zayn’s flushed cheeks, the sugar on Harry’s tongue, or the softness of his hair as Zayn grazed his hands through it. He takes another breath: a deep one and opens his eyes to the darkening clouds that pass over them with the forthcoming of rain.

“No,” he lies: to himself more than to Harry, because he thinks, in some miraculous way, he’ll believe it after a time of telling himself so. As if his head can deceive his heart. “It was just a kiss.” He looks to Harry. “I mean, we’ve only known each other for a few days, not even a week.”

Zayn can’t discern the low twinge in Harry’s brow, the falling of his countenance in a way that almost seems disappointed, sad and deflated, and so he looks away.

“Right,” Harry says, his voice soft and barely there at all. “Yeah, you’re right. It was, uhm, it was stupid.” He laughs to himself—no more than a scoff under his breath—and sits straight in his chair so he can turn the engine back on. “The point system still stands, by the way. Points if you want to drive,” he offers.

Zayn can tell Harry is trying to keep the conversation light-hearted, but he’s not in the mood.

“My back, uhm, my back hurts. I’d rather not,” is all he says, and gives him a small, thin-lipped, almost sympathetic smile.

“Okay. Have you got your seatbelt on?”

Zayn clips it in, and Harry follows. “I have now.”

“Right.” Harry stretches his fingers and re-shifts into a comfortable position. “Back on the road, then.”

As Harry pulls out onto the road, the first drops of rain skim down the windows like Ducks and Drakes. Zayn paints them on the inside with his finger, and he closes his eyes to the sound of the rain as it makes heavy music against the roof of the car, thinking that it might be a good idea to sleep in the car tonight.

 

\+ + + +

 

Harry escapes to the personal gym they have in the hotel when they arrive. Zayn purposely takes the stairs with his own bags to make sure he’s _definitely not_ going to earn another kiss token, despite, maybe, sort of, wanting to. He cleans the shower and finds himself sat on the floor, letting the water cascade over him. His clothes aren’t even off yet, not even his socks, and he hopes that the radiator is on so he can wring and dry them before the morning.

It hits him, as he sits there, staring at the marble tiles and counting them over and over, that the funeral is in two days. He’s been able to forget about it all, travelling and being so caught up in Harry and the way things are between them—the only time he’s had to let it sink in further being those few seconds of complete stillness before he falls asleep, when he remembers why he’s in Europe, on the road, with Harry to begin with.

But now, time is all he’s got. Harry is purposefully ignoring him because he just _had_ to go and make things more awkward, Jude will already be in bed, and he knows he can’t call Niall without getting an earful about how much of a wanker he is, and he really doesn’t want to hear that, right now.

In two days, he’ll be standing around a group of strangers who are supposed to be his family, watching his father be lowered into the ground, and he won’t ever see him again. He’s already lost the chance to say goodbye, to have a good relationship with him—the relationship a son and a father should have. Zayn lost his father the day he was born, before that, and so he’s struggling to wrap his mind around why it’s so difficult to let go now. To let go of a father that he didn’t really know, of a man who is just a man with a title he shouldn’t have. There’s a sense of obligation, he thinks—he _feels_ —and his dad’s kind words of how his mum raised him to be too soft, too loving, too fair, to let people in when they don’t deserve it because he clings to the good in people instead of the bad, ricochet in his mind. Because he thinks, still thinks, that Demetri was a good person deep down. Because he thinks, clings on to the hope, that in another life, he may have had a good relationship with his father, who would have loved him and raised him and called him his son without judgment or hesitation, or with snide lips and disgruntled eyes. A father who would have tucked him into bed and read him stories as a child, who would make him breakfast and take him to school and wish him a good day. Someone who would have been his Baba, to rub his back when he was crying and tell him it’ll be okay.

Zayn doesn’t realise he’s crying until a sob breaks through the cracks in his lips, his tears disappearing under the water before they have a chance to fall. He puts his head between his knees and cries hard—ugly, loud sobs and snotty sniffles to clear his nose and do it all over again.

He thinks back to being a baby, tries to pick a memory—just one—out of his mind that’s with his father, one that will make him smile and put to rest the isolating loneliness and loss in his chest—but he cries even harder when he can’t, his heartbeat a raucous drum in his ears, his tears feeling like stones that clatter on the shower floor as they fall.

The door of the bathroom shudders with knocks, and Zayn doesn’t have time to answer before it’s being swung open. He looks back to find Harry, whose eyes scan the room and land on him and soften, brows knitted in concern. He takes two large strides over to the shower and kneels beside Zayn.

“Move out the way, Harry,” he says, sniffling, “you’re getting wet.”

“I find you on the bathroom floor, crying your eyes out, and you think the only thing I care about is getting wet?” he asks, his voice light, but his smile fades. “Don’t be daft.”

“Wouldn’t want to get your fancy fucking clothes ruined, would I?” he grumbles. “There’s probably still… fucking bleach on the side of the glass, or something. You’ll get it on you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, really?”

“Zayn, the only thing I care about right now is if you’re okay.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and shrugs Harry’s touch off him.  

“Do I look okay?” he blubbers. “I’m burying my father in two days. _Two days_ , Harry. I miss home, I miss my family. I miss my son like fucking hell, and it hurts, it really, really hurts that I have to be away from him over a man I don’t even know, who treated me like shit, who didn’t love me. Who I—” He looks the other way in embarrassment when he can’t keep the sob in “—who I still love, who I still care for, who I’m still heartbroken over. And I—things are so complicated, with you, with life, with just me and my fucked up fucking mind, and I don’t think…” he shakes his head. “Fucking hell, Harry, I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Harry coos, and he brings a hand up to rub Zayn’s arm, “you’re okay, Zayn. You’re alright.”

“I’m not,” he chokes out, “I’m really, really fucking not. I haven’t been for a while.”

“Oh c’mere, you daft sod,” Harry says and climbs into the shower to take Zayn into his arms.

Zayn leans into Harry and cries, welcomes the safety he feels as Harry wraps his arms around him, pushing his wet hair away from his face and rubbing his arm. He cries for—God, he doesn’t know how long: until he presses his head to Harry’s chest and focuses on the sound of his heart to calm him. Their clothes are ruined, fingers pruned as they intertwine in Zayn’s lap, and Zayn is sure that the shower only beat him  to the chance to soak Harry’s shirt down to the bone by seconds. Every now and then, Harry leaves kisses in Zayn’s hair, and he rocks them back and forth gently on the floor until all Zayn’s sobs are sniffles past the stream of water.

When Harry tucks Zayn’s hair behind his ear, they look up to one another. It surprises him, to see Harry’s eyes all glossy and sad, too; to find this sympathy he never thought he could appreciate trickling through the features in Harry’s face before the water can.

“Why are you sad?” Zayn asks, voice cracked.

“Because you’re sad. I don’t want to see you like this. I want to see you smile.” He brushes his fingers against Zayn’s cheek. He brings their heads forward, so they’re together. “Are you okay, Zayn?”

“No,” he says, “but I will be. I just need to get through Thursday, and then I will be. When I can go home and be with my family, I will be.” He rests his hand on Harry’s chest. “Thank you, Harry. For asking me, for taking me all the way to Russia. I don’t know what I would’ve done with you.”

Harry’s lips turn thin, his brows furrowing, and he shakes his head, looking as though he’s going to say something but changes his mind.

He strokes over Zayn’s hair. “I just want you to be okay. In the time I’ve spent with you… I like you. You’re the type of person you feel like you can, I don’t know, tell all the secrets in the world to, and know you’ll still be safe,” he says, smiling down at Zayn. “And I don’t know you, really, not as much as someone else, but I know that you’re too kind and too forgiving for your own good, and I wouldn’t wish any hurt on you, _ever_. You don’t deserve that. And my past behaviour, well… it repulses me, it really does. To think I wished that on you, and on your son without even knowing.” He shakes his head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Zayn. Because now… like, when I see you like this, so upset and knowing I can’t do anything about it, my chest feels so tight that I can’t help but ask for your forgiveness, even though I know it’s selfish of me and I don’t deserve it. Otherwise I’m scared I might not be able to look at you again. And I don’t want to do that, ‘cause you have really pretty eyes.”

Zayn laughs. Sort of. “I’m supposed to be the profound one.”

“Well, I’m stealing it from you, just for a second,” he says, and he smiles before his face turns serious again. “Forgive me, please.”

“I’ve already forgiven you, Harry.”

“I need to hear you say it again.”

Zayn’s heart picks up a beat in his chest, and he leans in so his lips can connect with Harry’s. Just briefly, cautiously, but long enough to feel Harry sigh against him, to let him know Harry wants it, too. He pulls away, then, and Harry’s lips follow him as he does.

“I already forgave you. Even before we met in France.”

Harry breaths out a laugh. “So, what was all that hostility for?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Zayn argues.

“Touché, baby.” He runs a finger softly against Zayn’s mouth. “Your lips get really swollen when you cry.”

Zayn flickers his eyes down to Harry’s lips and back up. “Yeah.”

He brings his lips back up to Harry’s, squeezing his eyes shut as if, if he can focus more on the light spots between his eyes and the delicate touch Harry’s rests across his cheeks, that he’ll forget what he’s so afraid of entirely—as if Harry has the ability to do that. Zayn wishes he did.

Harry is the first one to move away, which, he thinks, surprises them both. He’s the first one to take a breath, to remove the hand that’s slowly slinked over his shorts to palm him. Zayn desperately bites at Harry’s lip in attempt to pull him back in, but he slips away. Zayn clasps his hands around Harry’s arms and digs his short fingernails in to find grip. He grasps on, moans, leans back in to find that medicinal touch again, but Harry only leans further away, moves so he’s cheek-to-cheek with Zayn, so their lips can’t possibly meet in any possible way, and denies him.

Zayn leans his head down onto Harry’s shoulder, his cheek protected enough from the water to let a single, undisturbed tear fall. His body winds down, his arms go slump, and his hands fall down Harry’s biceps to his waist, where he holds tightly and disregards the intention of letting go.

“What’s wrong?”

“You _know_ what’s wrong, Harry. I just told you.”

“I mean, what have _I_ done?”

Zayn doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head, half-heartedly, instead.

Harry brings his fingers under Zayn’s chin and pulls him up, so their eyes meet. “What have I done?”

His eyes well up before he can will them not to. “I just—I really like you, Harry. You’re an arsehole, but I like you. And I—I just need you, right now,” he says, sounding so lost and so broken, and Harry’s face sours with pathos. “I need you to touch me. To do summat with me, otherwise I might go fucking barmey.”

Harry sighs. “You’re not going to go mad, Zayn. You’re alright, you’re going to be alright. It all is.”

“Just touch me, Harry,” he requests. He takes Harry’s hand in his and brings it down to his crotch, and when Harry pulls away from the touch, grimacing like he’s a blinding light and looking away, Zayn brings the hand to his cheek and sighs as Harry’s fingers frame his skin. “Harry.”

“I’m not going to pity-fuck you, Zayn.”

“Oh, Harry, it’s not a pity fuck.” Zayn moans, the grasp he has on Harry’s hip growing tighter. “I just—I just need you,” he says quietly, and his reddened eyes meet Harry’s. “I need you, okay? I haven’t got anyone else, not now. You’re the only one, and I need you. So, please, _please_ , just… do this for me. Please.”

Harry bows his head and falls quiet. Zayn sits, the water still raining over them, holding onto Harry as if he can’t breathe otherwise. He thinks minutes pass before Harry ducks his head down and brings his lips back to Zayn’s, but he doesn’t have time to delve any deeper into the touch, and it’s over before it even began. Zayn almost starts crying again, like a little fucking baby, but he can’t help it. He needs the touch, the affection, the intimacy of it to cure him from this moment, and it’s always been that way.

Love can only cure so much, but Zayn lets it heal what it can before it can’t.

“If you need me, you can have me, in any way you want,” Harry says, backing away when Zayn leans in again, “but not like that.”

“Well, that’s not any way, then, is it?”

“You’re upset, Zayn. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret in the morning. You kissed me last night and regretted it hours later.”

“But I’m kissing you now and I don’t.”

“Because you’re confused.”

“No, Harry, _I’m not_.”

Harry grabs his shoulders tightly, to stop him moving in again. “Yes, Zayn, _you are_. And you’re only going to think I’m even more of an arsehole than you _already_ think I am in the morning, when you realise I’ve taken advantage of a very fragile situation, of you,” he says and strokes Zayn’s arm. “I don’t want you to think that. We’ve already come so far, right? We’re practically friends.”

Zayn looks into his eyes and away again, down to the soaked denim of his lap, where he lets the reality that Harry is right absorb into his skin. The water turns cold all of a sudden, like ice hitting his sensitive skin, like hard pellets against his head that laugh at him and make him ache, but the steam still rising around them lets them know it’s just him, that it’s just in his mind. Somehow, Harry finds his tears through the streams of water down his face and wipes them away, and Zayn looks up to him as if Harry is the anchor stopping him from crashing into the shore, as if he’s the light between all the shadow of dawn, the platform beneath him to save him from falling through the floor and disappearing.

“I know I’ve said this a lot,” Harry begins, debating a small smile at the edges of his lips, “but I _am_ right this time.”

Zayn suspires. “Yeah. I know.”

“How about, we get these clothes off you,” he says. Zayn looks up to him. “So you can _actually_ shower.”

“Right.”

“I told you, Zayn, I’m not going to touch you, not like that. I meant it,” he says.

“I know,” Zayn mumbles. “Don’t know if you don’t try.”

“Suppose so.” He smiles. “C’mon.”

He pulls them both to their feet and begins to take off his workout shorts and his boxers. Zayn looks away courteously, turns around to take his own shirt off and throw it behind him without looking.

“You know, if you didn’t act like a little school boy, you’d see where you were throwing things,” Harry says, and Zayn turns around to find his dripping wet shirt over Harry’s head. “I’m not a drying rack, babe.”

Zayn laughs shortly—like he shouldn’t but he does—and it feels nice to carry something other than a burdensome weight in his chest for just a second.

“Sorry,” he says, and peels his shirt off Harry, throwing it on the floor. He takes in a breath when Harry wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him in. “I didn’t, uh… I didn’t want to… y’know.”

“No, I don’t,” he teases.

Zayn softly hits his chest. “Stop it, Harry, you know what I mean. Don’t tease me if you’re not gonna do anything about it.”

“Okay, alright, I won’t,” he yields. “But, I might kiss you. Your lips are very close to me.”

“Then, move away. I don’t have any kiss tokens.”

Harry hums. “You just earned, like, _a hundred_.”

“How?”

“By admitting I was right.” Harry gives him a cheeky grin, all teeth and playful eyes, and he falls into Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn laughs. “You’re an idiot, Harry.”

“Yeah,” he muffles, leaving kisses across Zayn’s shoulder and up his neck. “I could be your idiot, though, just for tonight. Tomorrow I have to be the world’s idiot, and the day after that my family and friends. But tonight, it could just be us.”

“Yeah,” Zayn almost whispers, cupping his hand to fit Harry’s cheek, eyes so vehement with adoration that he feels like they could burst a blissful hole through the wall and escape through it together and leave all their troubles behind. In this moment, for some reason he doesn’t really understand—he feels it pull, deep down in a crevasse in his chest—he knows Harry has him, he knows Harry is ready to catch him if he falls, and a part of him, sort of, wants to—just to see how it would play out: if Harry would catch him before he even has time to move or just before he hits the floor, to twist him back up into his arms and tell him it’s all okay, like it’s some stupid fairy-tale he’s, sort of, hoping will come true.

Because that’s what he needs right now. Something surreal and profound and unrealistically hopeful that he can look to. Jude’s little dream tale or something like that.

God, he wishes his little baby was here with him. Zayn knows he’d make it all okay.

“Why didn’t you bring him with you?” Harry asks. He grabs Zayn’s loofa from the side and squeezes body wash onto it.

Zayn takes in a breath when Harry starts cleaning his chest. “I, uhm, I didn’t want to drag him all this way. He’s only ever been to Bradford and back to London, he wouldn’t know how to cope with being so far from home, even if he was with me. Once it stopped being fun, he’d just beg to go home until we did. And, I don’t know, leaving him at home was even less stressful than bringing him with me, despite how weird it sounds to say that,” he tells. “Plus, I wouldn’t want him to come to the funeral, to see me and everyone else so upset. He’d just get confused.”

“I suppose that’s a good point. Kids are really observant at that age,” Harry says. He drags the loofa down his arms, and Zayn picks them up in the air to help him. “I have a little cousin, Adam—well, he’s probably not little anymore—but I accidentally taught him some swear words when he was little, he literally saw me swear once and he remembered it, and I wasn’t allowed to hang out without him unsupervised after that.”

“I’m not surprised, seems like summat you’d do,” he teases. 

Harry frowns, parts his mouth. “Hey,” he drawls out, scolding.

“No, it definitely fits your character.”

Harry places the loofa down on the side and hooks his finger in the loop of Zayn’s jeans. He pulls at them and drags Zayn in closer, their lips missing each other by a beat.

“You gonna take these off?” Harry asks. “So I can wash the rest of you.”

“You, uhm, you haven’t done my back yet.”

“I’ll do one side at a time.”

“Harry, I can—I can wash myself,” Zayn says, awkwardly, his shoulders turning stiff at the thought of being naked in front of Harry.

“I know you can. But I want to help you, and I know you don’t have the energy to do much right now—mentally, I mean. If I left you now, you’d probably just sit back down,” Harry says.

And, well, Zayn can’t argue with that.

Harry takes a step back and gestures at him. “Go on. I’m naked, too, if that helps.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles, “I noticed.” _Too much._

Hesitantly, taking as much time as he can before Harry looks at him funny, with a quirked brow and that ‘ _I-know-what-you’re-doing’_ type of look on his face, he unbuttons his trousers and struggles to push the wet fabric down his legs. When they get to his ankles, he stops trying and looks up to Harry.

“I can’t get them off.”

“Come here,” Harry says, laughing. He bends down to one knee and lifts Zayn’s foot up to pull his jeans off, and Zayn tries not to think about the fact his uncovered, half-hard cock is in line with Harry’s face the whole time.

Harry leaves a kiss to his exposed thigh before he stands up, and he draws Zayn into his mouth before he can protest, bringing his hips in with a moan. When Harry squeezes his arse, Zayn slaps his back and pulls away, a smile on his lips that he bites away.

“We’re probably running the water bill right up,” he says.  

“I wonder who’s to blame for that.” 

“Shut up.”

“Best to get to it, then.” Harry grabs the loofa and squeezes it between his hand to bring the soap to the surface. He provocatively raises his brows. “Just to let you know, if you get a boner, don’t think anything of it. I’m halfway there, myself.”

“Oh, that makes it much less awkward.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“It’s not awkward, baby. It’s human nature. It’s what happens when two attractive men stand in front of each other, naked,” he says, all cocky with a licentious smirk.

Zayn clears his throat. “You think I’m attractive?”

“Uhm, yeah?” Harry looks at him with these brows, these playful eyes; as if it’s obvious. “Have you not looked in the mirror? You’re gorgeous, Zayn.”

Zayn looks down at his feet, to the water flickering away in spots at their toes, and back up with rubied cheeks he hopes Harry can’t distinguish between the heat of the room and the crying. “I suppose, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“It is.” Harry brings Zayn’s chin up with his fingers and kisses him; just once, but slowly and so gently that Zayn almost loses his footing and wraps his arms around Harry for support.

It’s nice, he thinks, just to have the contact. That intimate connection that all people try to seek out in some way. When he’s sad or alone, he cuddles up to Jude and watches a film with him. When he’s stressed, he drinks or smokes with Niall and stays up until early hours in the morning when he has work the next day and knows he shouldn’t (because that’s the thrill he finds between all the mundane in his life). When he’s unsure, he phones his mum and tells him he loves her.

But when he’s lost and he’s vulnerable and roused for a touch only a stranger could give him, he finds himself desperate to discover it wherever he can. And it feels good, for once, it feels really good, to not find it in his own hands but in the palms of another: in hands that have to explore and experiment because they’ve never been here before, that find new skin so he can find new emotion and desire, so he can satiate the tense, corrupted and foul arousal he feels building in his chest. And—God, he can’t deny it—Harry’s hands feel so good across his skin that, for a second, he’s glad he ever hated the man. So he could come to like him. So he could come to more than like him. So he could come to—Zayn moans gently under his breath.

Harry brushes the loofa across the surface of his crotch, and Zayn holds his breath, brings his hand up to Harry’s arm, and closes his eyes. Harry brings his lips back to Zayn’s again, and he’s kissing back before he has time to over-think it. He pulls away with a kiss to Zayn’s jaw and bends down to his knees. And Zayn feels stupid when Harry starts washing his legs, all the way down to his feet, instead of taking Zayn’s cock into his mouth like Zayn thought, just for a second, he was going to—like, even now, he wishes Harry would.

But Harry keeps his promise: he doesn’t touch Zayn unnecessarily or sexually in any way, only leaving small kisses to the front and back of his legs as he washes all the way down and back up again. He washes Zayn’s back, across his shoulders, and brings his arms around Zayn’s waist to pull him to his chest when he’s done. Zayn takes a breath, trying to ignore the feeling of Harry’s hardening cock pushing into the base of his back. He slides his arms over Harry’s and takes the loofa from him, turning around with a diffident smile.

“Turn around,” he says, “so I can wash you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry says. 

“You washed me. I just want to return the favour.”

Harry grins and turns around. Zayn takes a second, in this sacred peace of privacy he’s found, to steady himself and regain his composure, before he begins to work the loofa on Harry’s back.

“You don’t mind using your loofa on me?” Harry asks.

“Usually, I would, but I don’t mind,” Zayn replies. “I saw another one in the cupboard over there, so I’ll just steal that one and throw this one out.”

Harry tuts. “That’s a bit naughty.”

“Shut up, you goof.”

Zayn washes him head-to-toe, hesitantly brushing over his crotch which makes Harry laugh, and Zayn can’t help but think of how prudish he’s being. He’s never usually like this, on the nights, that seem so miniscule in volume to Harry’s extensive backgrounds of dalliances and lechery, where he’s been with other people; with other men. But he feels so sensitive, so open and exposed, that he can’t cower from the temptation to shy away completely—not when Harry looks at him, right into his eyes, and he doesn’t smile or he doesn’t frown, he doesn’t do anything but stare, and Zayn stares back, like Harry can see straight through him, straight to something that, maybe, Zayn doesn’t even realise he’s trying to hide until it’s been found.

Their eyes keep this unspeakable hold until Zayn stands back to his full height, and Harry turns the water dial down.

He jumps back at the cold water. “Harry, what are you doing, man?”

“We both can’t sit around with boners and not do anything about, can we?” he says, and leads Zayn back under the water. His lips fall straight to the crook of Zayn’s skin, where his jaw meets his neck, and Zayn can’t help but moan. “Although, my cock isn’t going to go down if you keep making sounds like that.”

Zayn shutters his eyes closed, smiling. “Then, I guess you better stop kissing me.”

“Why don’t you move away?”

“‘Cause it feels nice, just being touched. I missed it,” he admits. “Why don’t you stop kissing me?”

“Because I don’t want to. But, I suppose I should. Get dry and all that, put clothes on. Otherwise, you’re gonna be a mess watching me walk around naked,” Harry says.

Zayn feels his smirk against his skin. “Alright, cocky.”

“Oh, I am _very_ cocky, right now.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and pulls away from him, turning around whilst Harry laughs. He grabs the towel to the side and wraps it around his waist, and he feels Harry’s presence behind him as he walks back into the bedroom.

“You’re gonna get the carpet wet not using a towel,” Zayn says.

“I didn’t see any other towels.”

“That’s cause they’re still in the airing cupboard and they don’t just fly out into your hands.”

“Yeah, well, you stole mine.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says in a defensive tone, but when he looks up to Harry, Harry is already smiling at him, chewing on a biscuit. “Ass,” is all he mumbles and goes back to finding clothes out of the suitcase lay on the floor.

“It’s nearly two in the morning,” Harry says. “We should probably have a lie-in, in the morning.”

Zayn quirks his brow. “A lie-in? We’ll be off-schedule.”

“We’ve already been off-schedule for most of the trip. And it’s important you get enough sleep tonight.”

“Why?”

He sits down on the side of the bed and turns the bedside light on. “You know, ‘cause it’s important to get a good night’s sleep when you’re mentally exhausted. Otherwise, it just carries on to the next day.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Zayn says, nods along. He stands to his feet. “D’you mind, uhm…” He swivels his fingers.

Harry looks at him like he’s ridiculous. “Zayn, I just saw you naked. I washed your naked body.”

“Yeah, I know, I just—it’s different.”

“How?”

“Because _it is_ , Harry, just… close your eyes or turn around, something,” he says, and grabs the towel tightly in his fist.

He knows it’s ridiculous, he does. Harry is just staring at him with these curiously excited eyes, like he’s waiting for the towel to drop to the floor, picking up another biscuit from the side and biting into it slower than before, not even looking away from Zayn to even see where his hand is going, as if he doesn’t want to miss a second of him, or his breath, or what he does, or how he looks at Harry.

And Zayn stands there, almost as if he’s being licentiously reprimanded by Harry’s eyes as they fall to the floor, back to his chest, his face, until the lights around them seem to hurt his eyes and he’s in a spotlight.

He knows it’s ridiculous, he does. It’s just that, because, like… _oh_ —he sighs— _fuck it._

Zayn takes a breath and lets the towel drop to the floor. His eyes move away from Harry and don’t return until his boxers are up his legs, and he slides into the bed with small hints of heat in the apples of his cheeks.

Harry chuckles.

Zayn looks over to him. “What?”

“ _You_ ,” he says, “being all shy.”

Zayn shifts. “Yeah. I just feel a bit, y’know, vulnerable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The only people who have seen me like this are my mum and Niall. And I’ve known you for, like, a week, so it’s a bit weird. In a me sense, I mean. It’s weird in a me sense.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “I find things weird in ways other people don’t. ‘Cause of the OCD, the anxiety.”

“Right.” Harry nods. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll put clothes on. I really don’t mind, I was just being facetious.”

“It’s your room and your body, Harry. Do whatever you want with it,” Zayn says. “It’s not like we haven’t crossed that line already.”

“I’ll put some boxers on.” He walks over to his bag and grabs his boxers from inside, and he disappears behind the wall in the next compartment, out into the living area, before calling out, “Do you want a cup of tea? I’m boiling the kettle.”

“No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Hungry? There’s bread.”

“No, thanks.”

“They have banana’s.”

“I’m fine, Harry.”

“What about a biscuit?”

“Harry, I’m fine, stop fretting,” Zayn says, laughing.

“You’ve got to eat something before you go to sleep.”

“I really don’t want to, Harry, I’m fine. Honestly.”

Two minutes later, Zayn hears the toaster pop, and he rolls his eyes. Although he’s really not hungry—he never is after being so upset—he can’t deny that Harry makes really good fucking toast, and he ignores Harry’s confident grin the whole time he’s eating it.

He thinks it’s three o’clock by the time they get comfortable in each other’s embrace, Harry’s arms linked around Zayn’s waist and wrapping him in a protective cocoon close to his chest, and another hour passes before it feels like the words slip away between them and the silence slinks in. And Zayn, feeling so warm and finding, for the first time since he left, the closest thing he can to home, falls asleep in a matter of minutes.

 

\+ + + +

 

He wakes to an empty bed, just the sheets beside him. There’s no Harry, and it’s cold, and even though he isn’t even remotely half-awake yet, there’s a sinking feeling in his chest that he can’t ignore, that prohibits him from falling back to sleep. The clock tells him he’s been asleep for hours, though the soreness around his eyes makes it seem otherwise.

With a stretch and a yawn, he calls out for Harry and is met with the silence of the hotel room. He calls again—nothing. The shower isn’t running, the TV is on in the living area but the sound is muted, and the curtains are still drawn. He finds the indent of Harry’s body against the pillows of the settee as he walks over, but no Harry. Not even the kettle has the remnants of condensation along the skin. Harry’s bag is gone from the bedroom, and even his dirty washing from the bathroom floor has disappeared. And, just for a second, Zayn has to wonder if Harry was there at all, if last night happened or if it was just part of his imagination. If Harry slept in the car, and Zayn fell asleep much earlier than he thought he did.

At first, he assumes Harry is down at breakfast, that maybe he’s stalling, that, maybe, it’s his time to ignore Zayn, like Zayn did to him yesterday, like he’s getting his own back for being a cock about it all. But noon rolls around and he knows there’s no way that Harry could linger around hours after breakfast is over. He even checks at the desk in the reception to see if the car is still held in the lot, in case Harry has gone out into the city, but the car is exactly where the valet left it yesterday, the receptionist tells him, and he drawls out his steps in a slow and confused way on his journey back up to the hotel room.

At two o’clock his phone rings, and Zayn rushes over to the bedside table from his place in the living area, stumbling over his own feet on the way, to see who it is. His shoulders fall when he reads the screen.

“Yeah?” he says.

_“Oh, don’t sound too disappointed, mate.”_

Zayn sighs and rubs his forehead. “Sorry. Just wasn’t the call I was hoping for.”

_“Oh are, who’re you waitin’ to call ya?”_

“Who do you think?”

_“Harry?”_

“Yeah.”

_“He’s not there with ya?”_

“No. When I woke up, he was gone.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “ _Woke up where, exactly?”_

“In bed.”

 _“So, you were in the bed. Together,”_ Niall says, all slow and assuming.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Nothing happened, Ni. Nothing like that.”

 _“So, what_ did _happen?”_

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

_“Well, you said you’d ring me back when you fucked him, so I’m guessin’ that didn’t happen.”_

“What?” Zayn frowns. “I didn’t say that.”

_“You pretty much said that.”_

“No, I didn’t.”

 _“Well, you didn’t have to. Sometimes your mind is like a creakin’ cog, it doesn’t have to say anythin’ for me to know,”_ he says. _“Or, maybe that’s just ‘cause I know ya.”_

“What are you rambling on about?”

 _“You, like usual,”_ he says, and Zayn hears the disgruntled timbre in his tone. _“You’re quite a hot topic between me and Queen. You break in all those, y’know, awkward quiet moments. We have those a lot, actually. Jude likes to make them even more awkward by askin’ obvious questions, little bleeder.”_

Zayn walks back into the living room, perches on the edge of the seat because that’s how far off he has to sit in order to stop himself from going crazy, so he can tap his foot against the ground in an anxious pattern and jump to his feet quick if Harry storms in the room and cements the feeling he has in his gut that something’s wrong. It’s probably just his anxiety, he knows. But Harry isn’t here, and if he isn’t here… Well, where could he be? Far away from Zayn, is for sure. In a random country. Alone.

“ _I doubt he’s gonna leave you stranded in a foreign country, mate, stop stressin’._ ”

Zayn pauses his nail biting. “Was I thinking out loud?”

_“Yeah.”_

“I think you meant oblivious.”

_“What?”_

“You said obvious,” Zayn says, “but I think you meant oblivious.”

_“Yeah, right. That. So, you were listening, then?”_

“Of course I was.” Zayn unmutes the TV and lets the sound dull the uncertainty trickling down the shadowed walls of the room. “How is he? How’s Jude? I haven’t spoken to him.”

_“He’s alright. He’s gone out with ye mam, to the park, I think. I’m meeting Queen soon.”_

Zayn only hums.

_“Are you alright? You seem off.”_

“I’m just anxious.”

_“About?”_

“About Harry, obviously.” He huffs. “He’s not here.”

_“Yeah, you’ve said.”_

“But he should be. He was next to me when we went to sleep last night, and it’s past breakfast,” he tells. “I don’t even think he’s in the building.”

 _“He was next to you when you went to sleep,”_ Niall repeats, a snide grin to his voice. _“Are you sure nothin’ happened?”_

“No, Niall, I’m sure nothing happened.” Zayn huffs. “Nothing except, y’know, just some cuddly shit. Some kissing, stuff like that.”

“ _Stuff like that,”_ he carries on.

Zayn groans underneath his breath. “We showered together, and we kissed a little bit. It was just a bit of fun, is all.”

“ _Right. But now he’s missin’.”_

“Yeah.”

_“Y’know, friends don’t usually shower together and kiss and cuddle.”_

“Yes, they do.”

“ _Well, we’ve never done that.”_

“Well, we aren’t the only friends to ever exist, are we? I’m sure other friends do it.”

 _“Have you, uhm…”_ Niall clears his throat. _“Have you and Queen ever done that?”_

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Niall. We’re not, like, together, we don’t have those type of feelings for each other.”

“ _But, you just said you don’t have to have feelin’s for someone to do that stuff with them.”_

Zayn, a smoke of defeat whispering through the cracks of the room, finally falls back into the settee and draws his lip between his teeth. “I did, didn’t I?”

“ _Not in those words, but yeah, you did.”_

“Huh.”

Zayn looks around the room, not really sure what he’s looking for but glad that no one is there to see the glimmer of fear on his face, relieved that Niall isn’t sat in front of him with an _I-told-you-so_ type expression that would make this that little bit worse. He hides his face under his hand and groans. Sometimes, the world really isn’t that awesome. Not for Zayn, anyway.

“D’you think—” he begins, but pauses, as if his tongue fails him. “D’you think…”

“ _That you’ve probably got feelings for the wanker? Yeah, probably.”_

Zayn frowns. “Don’t call him that.”

Niall laughs. “ _Kinda provin’ my point, mate.”_

“But, I’ve only known him for, like, what—a week?”

Niall hums, takes a bite of something. “ _I mean, if ya think about it, it’s not that surprisin’.”_

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a relationship expert now.”

“ _There’s no need to be sarcy, I’m just sayin’,_ ” he says. “ _You’ve been stuck with each other and only each other, most of the time in a car, alone, for that amount of time. It’s like if you stuck two people on an island together. Their instincts would eventually start to take over.”_

“So, you’re comparing the situation to a bunch of humans gone feral on an island and turned into animals?”

“ _No, Zayn, obviously that’s not what I’m doin’,”_ he says, exasperated, _“but you can see the comparisons.”_

“No… I can’t.”

_“Car is island. Road is water. Trapped inside with only each other. The similarities are uncanny.”_

“But we’ve had enough time to meet new people and socialise if we wanted to. Like, Harry’s been going down to the bars and probably talking to people, meeting other people, y’know?”

“ _Right. But, out of all those people, who’s gonna be there with him the next day? ‘Cause I can only think of one person, and that’s you, lad,”_ Niall says.

“Well, what’s that got to do with anything?”

 _“I read somewhere in this article once, I think it was in a Forbes magazine, or maybe it was—I don’t know, but I read that some celebrities cling on to the things they know to be constant ‘cause everythin’ else around them isn’t, like, things are changin’,”_ he says _. “So, y’know, you’ve sort of been his rock on this journey, a memory souvenir, or somethin’ like that. You’ve been that to each other. Like, y’know, there’s been no me, or Jude, or family with you, no office, no job, no work. There’s been no familiarity apart from a few clothes, a book, a toothbrush, and Harry. So, it’s natural that you guys would, ‘yknow, cling to each other. And do anythin’ else that, that might… entail.”_

Zayn finds a thin thread on the arm of the chair and picks at it until it’s little bits of fabric in his hand and he’s left a mark in the pattern. His eyes fleet from corner to corner, waiting for anything to move, anything to focus on so he doesn’t have to focus on this—on the reality, because, well, it’s terrifiying, and although being a full-time dad has made him selfless and fearless in the moments where it’s dire to be so, he’s been known to try and run when things get difficult for himself. And this he feels like he might be able to run a marathon to avoid.

“I have feelings for Harry?” he asks, to himself rather than Niall, but he hears Niall’s ambiguous hums on the other end of the line. “I have feelings for Harry,” he says, more sure this time. “Oh my fucking God, Niall, what am I gonna do?”

_“Nothin’. You don’t need to do anythin’.”_

He rams his fingers into his hair and tugs. “I don’t—We—like, I don’t need this. The funeral is in two days, I don’t fucking need this, right now.”

_“Maybe it’s a good thing. Bein’ unsure of it would probably only confuse you more, emotionally. And that’s somethin’ you definitely don’t need, right now, if anythin’.”_

“And you don’t just think that I’m, like, y’know, like you said, clinging because I need the emotional support?”

_“I didn’t say that.”_

“Yes, you did.”

_“No, I didn’t.”_

“Yes, you—you said we were feral humans on an island giving into our carnal desires.”

_“I didn’t say that, not like that.”_

“You didn’t need to,” Zayn mocks.

_“I said you were—I didn’t say you fancy him ‘cause you need fucking mental support, that’s not how it works, Zayn. If you fancy him, you fancy him. You leanin’ on him has nothin’ to do with you needin’ an emotional crutch. You’re doin’ that because you like him.”_

“But… Niall, you seem really calm.”

_“I am calm. What have I got to stress about?”_

“But, I just… Don’t you think it’s a bad thing for me to catch feelings for someone? Like, now of all times. Harry of all people. In this situation of all other possible situations this could’ve happened in.”

“ _Maybe. But, that’s usually the way it works. Ed Sheeran said somethin’ about that once, I think. And, if you ask me, it’s been a long-time comin’. I don’t remember the last time you had anyone like that. Not since Cass, and God fuck, was that good for anyone.”_

“You’re not, like, scornful or disapproving?”

“ _Well, I gotta be honest, mate, I don’t really like the guy, not from what I’ve seen. And, until about a week ago, you didn’t like him, either. But I can’t disapprove without, y’know, de-valuing how you feel, and I don’t wanna do that,”_ he says _. “If you like the guy, fuck, who am I to tell you otherwise? You’re the one that’s spent nearly every hour of the day for a whole week with him. If anyone knows best, it’s you.”_

There’s a break in the conversation, and Zayn just listens to his heartbeat to try and soothe him. But it’s too erratic and irrational to do anything good.

“Niall.”

“ _Yeah, mate?”_

“That doesn’t help me.”

“ _Well, fuck me for tryna be supportive.”_

“But, I just—” he sighs. “Thank you for your support, but I don’t need you to coddle me, right now. I need to hear your opinion.”

_“You want my honest opinion?”_

“Yes.” 

_“You want my honest, honest opinion?”_

“Fuck— _yes_ , Niall. That’s what I want.” 

 _“I think it was a fuckin’ awful idea for you to climb into that car with him in the first place,” he says. “Two gay guys alone together for that long?”_ He whistles. “ _Disaster. Or a great fuckin’ time. But, it’s you, so disaster.”_

“Well, why didn’t you say anything to me?” Zayn cries and stands to his feet.

“ _It was your only way to get there. What was I supposed to do—put ideas into your head to stop you goin’ to your father’s funeral? C’mon, Zayn. I didn’t even want you to leave the fuckin’ house. If I’d’ve given you my opinion, given you another reason to stay more than I already knew you wanted to, on top of Jude’s cute puppy eyes, you would’ve been fucked. You’d never have stepped out the house.”_

“Yeah, well, I’m starting to think that would have been less complicated for me in the long run,” he mutters. “Literally and emotionally.”

“ _Look, why don’t you just talk to Harry?”_

“Oh, yeah, that’s great advice, Niall. I’m gonna talk to him. He’s not even here, I don’t know where the fuck he’s gone, but I’m gonna talk to him.”

“ _I mean, when he gets back_ ,” Niall reiterates, huffing. _“Look, mate, just take a breath and calm down, yeah? You’re makin’ me all stressed, and I’ve gotta meet Queen in, like, twenty minutes. Don’t get me all riled up.”_

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Zayn walks to the window and pulls the curtain back to peer into the street. It’s busy for a weekday afternoon—Zayn has to remind himself that he isn’t at home, that city life in Belarus is probably intrinsically different than London. The streets are packed with on-goers, and even though he can’t distinguish one brunet from the other, he knows there’s no Harry roaming about anywhere down there. No, Zayn thinks he’d be able to spot him in a heartbeat—if it wasn’t by his hair or his clothes, but by the way he walks, with that little sway in his hips that rocks his whole body as he moves. It’d make him stand out in a crowd—to Zayn, anyway. And he knows he shouldn’t memorise things like that about Harry at all, but, he supposes, that’s all that matters. All he wants to think about that matters. Not the inherent complications that follow him knowing these types of _shouldn’t-really-know-that_ things about Harry that he denies even being aware of, until he finds himself smirking to the floor to disclose himself from… Oh, _whatever_ , he’s just being ridiculous.

“ _Look, when he gets back, just talk to him. Ask him how he feels, or some shit, I don’t know,”_ Niall rambles out. _“But talkin’ to him, communicatin’, it’s the best thing you can do. Who knows, maybe it’s not as bad as you think it is in ya mind. Just talk to him.”_

“Oh, sure, you’re absolutely right, Niall. When he walks in, I’ll make him a cup of tea and tell him to sit down, and I’ll just say, ‘ _Hey, Harry, I know we’ve only known each other a week, and we actually hated each other for a good amount of time. But, you know what? I’ve actually come to like you, to the point where, you know, I have feelings for you, hope that doesn’t scare you off’_. I’m sure that’ll go down a treat. Maybe I’ll even tell him I care for him. Or I might even throw in the whole bundle and tell him I love him.”

Behind him, the hotel door clicks shut.

Zayn turns around so fast that a dizziness takes over his eyes, just for a second, before they focus in on Harry, who stands there, still, like a statue, his bag in his hand, staring at Zayn with a complacency in his face, a subtle tweak at the edge of his brows, that doesn’t give away enough to define the moment as anything. The air stands still between them, and it’s only then that he notices the movement of someone else behind Harry, who places their bags on the floor and breaks the moment. Zayn almost drops the phone from his hand before he hears Niall’s voice again.

 _“He just walked in, didn’t he?”_ he asks, the grimace so tangible in his voice that Zayn has to look away to scream at the curtain with his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, all quiet and strained and unsure of what to do with himself.

“ _I’m gonna let you go, then. Sort this out.”_

“Probably for the best.”

“ _Good luck, mate. I love you.”_

“I love you, too,” Zayn says, and ends the call.

He looks back up to Harry, swallowing when he finds this pull at the end of Harry’s lips instead of the dread he was searching for, the uncertainty in his own chest. A part of him, that deep, cowardly string of DNA he inherited from God knows where, pulls, and this hope for Harry to flee from the room in disdain takes over. He finds himself disappointed and wallowing in the silence when they all just stand there, as if, if they move, the room will shatter, and… well, there will be nothing else left, and the road left to Russia will be one long descent of cumbersome air to choke on.

At least, for now, Zayn has his pride.

“Am I the only one you don’t love, then?” he asks from behind Harry, a laugh in his voice.

“I don’t, uhm—I don’t love…” Zayn trails off before he can begin, and they’re left in the silence again.

Harry just stares at him, unblinking. Slowly, he brings his bag to the floor, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Zayn when he speaks.

“You can take your bags into the bedroom.”

“I’ll take up your offer of that drink if Harry won’t,” he says as he passes Zayn’s way. “Guy didn’t even offer me a drink on the way here.”

“I stopped to get you a coffee,” Harry objects.

“I meant a real drink, not a shitty instant coffee. What am I, a peasant?” He rolls his eyes. “They have real coffee in these places. The good shit.” He looks to Harry. “Can I still take that shower?”

Harry looks to Zayn.

“It’s fine,” Zayn assures.

Their eyes hold for just a second longer, and a capacity of unspoken words breaks them apart like a forcefield wedged between them. Zayn clears his throat and moves towards the kettle, He doesn’t bother filling it, deciding to just re-boil the water he put in there earlier to make Harry a cup of tea—before he realised Harry wasn’t going to be back in time to drink it—because the sink is closer to Harry than he already is, and he’s sure that with another step, he will explode. Literally. The chunks of a scared, little awkward boy with a disgusting crush hidden inside him, splattered all over the living room floor, all up the walls. And, although he thinks that would probably hurt less than the conversation he knows is waiting to happen, Jude still needs a daddy, and that’s more than enough to get through this. No matter how awkward it might be.

The shower begins to run.

“You didn’t respond to my message,” Harry says to break the silence.

Zayn looks to him and away again, back down to the marble of the work-top. “I didn’t even know you messaged me.”

“I messaged you earlier, just after I left. I woke you up before I left, too, but you were out of it.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m not surprised, you were still half-asleep.” Harry laughs but it falls away. “Did you, uhm—”

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Zayn interrupts, gripping the work-top tighter between his fingers. “You took your bag, I thought you’d left.” I thought you’d left me.

There’s a pause, and Zayn watches Harry look to the ground from the corner of his eye.

“I was going to, I did,” he admits. “After what happened yesterday, last night—it’s usually not like that for me. It’s never really emotional or, like, that serious, and I didn’t… like, it was—” He sighs “—I didn’t sleep last night, knowing how you felt, knowing you were sad, scared. I just knew it wasn’t happy. And, I don’t know, I guess it was easier for me to think you’d be better off without me through all of this. I’ve already caused you enough hassle.”

“So, you were just gonna leave?” Zayn asks, all quiet and incredulous, eyes narrowed but wide. “How was I going to get to Russia?”

“I left the car here, and it still had the GPS in it. I even left my card in the front seat, so you could use it for anything you needed to buy.” He breaths out this laugh, but his eyes look pained as he stares on. “It sounds really ridiculous now I’m saying it.”

“Completely ridiculous, yeah,” Zayn agrees. And although Harry’s face falls, his eyes all guilty and lips furrowed at the sides as he bites down for something to do, Zayn can’t help but feel betrayed. “You were just gonna leave me on my own. I don’t get it.”

“I don’t know. Neither do I, now that I’m thinking about it, actually saying it” Harry says. He takes an awkward step forward, close enough so that they could touch if he reached his arm out. “I guess, I was just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of how I feel,” he says in a whisper, swallowing. “It was easier for me to run away, like I always do, than face it.”

Zayn takes a breath. “How you—how you _feel?_ ”

Harry brings the side of his lip between his teeth and nods. “Yeah.”

Zayn turns, so his back is against the counter instead, so he’s facing Harry but can still look the other way, away from him. He combs his finger along the space between his nose and lips, where a moustache has grown considerably over the last few days.

“You should probably shave. You look all scruffy,” Harry says in a light-hearted tone.

“Probably.”

The kettle boils. Zayn pours a cup of coffee for Harry’s friend and leaves it on the side, a sachet of sugar beside it. The clinking of the spoon against the mug rattles out into a silence that envelopes them again, one that makes Harry look at his shoes and Zayn hold his breath. The shower is still running, Zayn can hear it from here, and he knows it’s only going to get more awkward when it stops; when Harry’s friend jumps out and ruins everything intimate they’ve created—everything Harry nearly ruined this morning.

“I changed my mind,” Harry says soon after. “ _Obviously_ , I changed my mind, but I did.”

“Suppose that’s the best thing.” Zayn wraps his arms around himself, as if he’s cold, but he couldn’t really feel any more flushed, being this close to Harry under the circumstances, which is far too close than he knows he should be. How close he wants to be is something different entirely.

“I got to the edge of the city when I stopped and turned around, when I realised how, just how fucking stupid I was being,” he says. “And then I got a call from Malm. He booked a flight to Poland, not to St. Petersburg. Don’t ask me how he did it, he’s always been stupid. So, he asked me if I could pick him up.”

“So, that’s what you’ve been doing?” Zayn asks. “You drove to Poland and back?”

“Yeah. I even went past that petrol station where we got stuck.”

Zayn looks away quickly, cheeks heating up like a flame that’s been blown on, that sparks and then flickers down in the cold. He picks at the skin around his thumb—a nervous habit, he knows—and brings it around to chew on it, so his mouth is filled with something, so he doesn’t have to say anything.

“I went all the way there in a taxi. Well, until we got to Poland, and then I had to jump on a last second coach to pick Malm up,” he tells. “That’s the guy in our shower, by the way. I, uh, mentioned him before.”

“He seems like a cock.”

“He is, yeah.” Harry chuckles. “Probably why we’re best friends.”

“Probably.”

After a pause, Harry steps forward and pulls Zayn’s hand from his chest to take it in his own. Zayn unwittingly holds his breath but lets the touch consume him. Like magnets, their eyes lock, and Zayn can’t find it in himself to look away, not when Harry is looking at him like that: with affection, and genuine, and a brightness in his eyes that makes Zayn a moth to the flame.

“So, I think you know this, but I overheard you talking,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles out.

“Did you mean it? The, uhm, the whole, like, do you love me?”

Zayn widens his eyes. “What?” No, I, uhm, I was just—that was just me, uhm, it wasn’t, like, that—I didn’t—that was just me being sarcastic. I didn’t mean it,” he finally rambles out and takes a breath.

“Right.” He nods.

“Yeah.”

“And the rest of it?”

Zayn cocks his head to the side, an unsure playfulness to him that replaces the worry. “Well, I guess not all of what I said was, uhm, false. I mean, you weren’t supposed to hear it, but I’m just gonna look like an idiot if I deny it now.” He awkwardly laughs, does that thing where he brings his eyes away and back, just so he can catch a breath.

“That’s a relief, I guess.”

Zayn frowns and turns himself so he’s facing Harry more. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Because, when it comes to situations like this, there’s nothing worse than unrequited feelings.”

Harry’s lips are on his before he can let a word out, just in time for him to open his mouth, and Zayn kisses back without thinking about it, because it’s the best thing to do, he thinks—to not think about it too much and just enjoy it. Because an hour ago he thought Harry had left him stranded in a country when he needs him the most (and he did, but Zayn doesn’t think that matters now, because Harry is here, slowly wrapping his arm around Zayn’s waist and pulling him in, tasting him, swiping his tongue against the edges of Zayn’s lips). And he moans, and his skin feels all hot but he welcomes it, welcomes the inundating opposition of the flush across the hairs on his neck, rather than the humid and panicked heat that’s stuck to his chest all morning, waiting for Harry to come back, afraid that he wouldn’t.

“I haven’t been stuck in a smelly coach all morning to watch you two swallow each other whole.”

They break apart at the sound of Malm’s voice and take a step back. Harry coughs and shoves his hands into the back pocket of his jeans, and Zayn wipes at his lips to clear of the moisture, to feel the swollen skin that Harry has left behind. He leans back on the counter with rubied cheeks.

“I’m guessing we’ve sorted things out,” Malm says, hiding his smirk behind his mug.

“Yeah. We’ll be on the road soon, so pack whatever you took out of your bag back in,” Harry says.

“I thought you said we were gonna be here for a while.”

“Well, that depended on how well things went.” Harry motions to Zayn.

Zayn grins lowly. “I _am_ stood right here.”

“I know.”

“Let me have my coffee and then we’ll head out.”

Malm sits down on the settee on the other side of the room, his phone in his hand as he walks. Zayn leans into Harry, who gives him his full attention.

“Is he, uhm, coming with us? For the rest of the journey?” he asks quietly.

Harry glances at Malm and back to Zayn. “Well, that was the plan. Unless you’ve got a problem with that, then I can fuck him off on a plane or a coach, or something.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just wondering,” Zayn says. “And we’re all going in the same car?”

Harry grins. “Yes, Zayn. Why, does that make you uncomfortable?”

“A little.” Zayn’s smile is to the side. “I’m just an anxious person. I don’t know how to act around new people, is all. I’ll get used to him.”

“We should be in Russia by the end of the day, given if we leave soon,” he says, pouring himself a cup of tea with the left-over water. “You’ll only be with him for a day. He can be a bit of a dickhead, but no more than I can be, don’t worry. I’ll protect you from his cuntishness, anyway.”

“I can still hear you,” Malm mutters from the other side of the room.

“I know you can.” Harry winks at Zayn and walks off with his cup of tea, sitting down beside Malm on the settee.

“I’m gonna get in the shower, then. And then we can leave, if that’s alright,” Zayn says. “I’ll probably be about forty minutes, though.”

“That’s fine, babe, take your time.”

“Why does it take forty minutes to shower?” Malm asks.

Harry hits the side of his leg, and Malm gives him a look. But Zayn finds it easier to ignore him altogether, giving Harry only a thin-lipped smile before he walks out of the room.

He holds his breath until the bathroom door shuts behind him, and Zayn, for anything in him, can’t keep the smile off his face.

 

\+ + + +

 

Zayn soon realises that maybe it wasn’t Harry’s best idea to bring Malm along the journey. He’s a chatterbox, and not the good type—not like Niall, who rambles on and on and you can, kind of, zone in and out on the bits that you’re intrigued in, because he’s mostly talking to himself than anyone else, because he’s ‘ _the only one who fully appreciates he and his mind’_.

No, it’s apparent early on that Malm is that type of shit-talker that makes you roll your eyes; that type of person that goes on and on like they’re discovering the meaning to life, and Zayn finds himself listening to Malm’s dialogue’s on a few occasions, his interest being piqued before he’s dropped again because he realises that all Malm is doing is rambling. Talking strings of words, where there’s no real means to the ends. He’s just talking shit. Zayn tells Harry this, when Malm sticks his earphones in to listen to a video, and Harry unhesitatingly agrees with him. ‘ _He’s a nice guy, really, he’s just got a particular taste,_ ” is what he says and goes back to driving. Zayn smiles at him and looks away.

“What time is the wedding?” Malm asks from the backseat.

“The wedding is at noon, the party starts at 3pm, I think,” Harry says.

Zayn hears Malm shuffle.

“Uhm, so we’ve—it’s 4pm already.”

“Yeah?”

“So, we’ve missed the wedding?” Malm asks, confused. “I mean, works for me. Can’t really stand weddings, anyway. They’re all pretentious and, ‘ _oh, look at us being happy, fucking chew on it’_ , when the reality is they’ll probably split up. Did you know, 42% of marriages end in a divorce? Fuckers are setting themselves up for a dirty end.” Zayn feels Malm’s feet in the back of his chair. “The party is always the best part of a wedding. You just get shit-faced and lie to people about how good your life is. I’ve always said parties are just a measurable justification for people to get drunk and not have it questioned.”

“The wedding is on the 28th, Malm. You haven’t missed it,” Harry says.

There’s a silence. Zayn just about holds the laugh under his lips.

“Oh,” is all Malm says. “Well, I suppose it’ll be fun. I can pretend to cry at the shitty vows and wish them all the happiness in the world.”

“I don’t think you need to do that. Just stay quiet and clap at the end, that’s all they really ask you to do.”

“Are you going, pretty boy?”

Harry glances at Zayn, but he looks back at Malm instead.

“I have a name,” he politely says.

“Right, Zayn,” Malm corrects. “Are you coming to the wedding?”

“No, I’m, uh, I’m going to a funeral. But we’re heading to the same place, so Harry offered to take me,” he tells.

“How ironic,” Malm chuckles. “I’d rather go with you than a poxy wedding.”

Zayn clears his throat and looks to his lap. “We can swap places if you like.”

He finds Harry giving Malm a glare in the rear-view mirror before giving Zayn a sympathetic, ‘ _I’m sorry for his behaviour’_ type of smile. He brings his hand from the gear stick over to Zayn’s thigh, where he squeezes gently, affirmingly, and Zayn doesn’t flinch or move away, even though his heart spikes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Zayn words back.

“You could come to the wedding,” Harry says, “if you wanted to.”

“As Harry’s date,” Malm adds. Harry pulls his hand away. “Or not.”

“I don’t think, uhm… I have a lot on my plate, at the moment. I don’t know whether I’ll be in the mood for a wedding,” Zayn says.

“Ah, it might help cheer you up after all that depressing shit. And there’ll be plenty of vodka, there always is in Russia.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Zayn says.

“Sure you are. There’s a drunk inside every man, especially when feelings are involved, and there’s a shit tonne of those at weddings and funerals.” He taps the shoulder of Zayn’s chair, and Zayn flinches away.

“He has a kid and a lot more responsibilities than you, Malm. He doesn’t have time to party all day,” Harry tells him.

“Oh, you’re a big daddy.” He hums. “What’s their name?”

“Jude,” Zayn and Harry say at the same time.

Zayn looks to him, but Harry keeps his eyes on the road.

“How old is the little guy?”

“He’s five, just turned. His birthday was in June.”

“Hard age.”

“Uhm,” Zayn pulls a face, “no, it’s not, actually.”

“Well, just think about it,” Harry says. “You don’t have to give an answer now, but you _are_ welcome to come to the wedding. I have a plus one, anyway.”

“Isn’t Malm your plus one?”

“I got my own invitation, thank you very much,” Malm chimes in.

“Luckily,” Harry utters and glances to Zayn. “Honestly, you’re more than welcome. I know the couple, they wouldn’t mind you being there. And it might be good for you, after everything,” he says.

“Yeah,” Zayn says quietly, “yeah, I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Harry smiles. “It’ll be fun.”

“Mate, it’s gonna be so fucking good. I got some new kush off Adrien before I came over, man swears by it. We can do it all in the posh toilets and pretend we’ve had too much to drink.”

“You went through airport control with drugs on you?” Zayn asks, almost incredulous.

He watches Malm shrug in the wing mirror.

“Done it plenty of times. I promised Harry I’d bring it.”

Zayn’s eyes turn to Harry, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Things have, uhm, changed, Malm. I’m not doing that, anymore, yeah?”

“Oh. You’re still doing that abstinent shit?”

“Yes, Malm. It’s a lifestyle change.”

“Not a very long one,” he scoffs.

“Where’s your faith in me, Malm?”

“I have faith in you, mate. But when it comes to drugs, you’re like bee to a pollen, and you’re always fucking buzzing.” He claps Harry on the back and sits back.

Harry’s fingers around the steering wheel tighten, just enough so the skin around his knuckles grows white and the creases disappear. His lips are thinned and his face lowered, but he remains quiet, eyes scanning across the road, into the wing-mirror, around at the expanse of the view.

“I think it’s more important that he’s trying, don’t you, Malm?” Zayn asks, keeping his eyes ahead. “Trying to improve yourself is better than being in denial of your own faults, even if you do fail at the end of the day.”

There’s a quiet, an old indie song on the radio from Harry’s playlist keeping that awkward silence at bay, but he feels it still: in his fingers that play with a loose string of thread on his ripped shorts, in Harry’s little, covet smile as he looks over.

“Right,” Malm says. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies.

When the air remains quiet, Malm, slinking into his chair and pushing his earphones back into his ears to avoid conversation all together, Zayn turns the volume up on the radio. Harry begins to hum not long after, and Zayn falls asleep against the side of the chair, a smile on his lips as Harry’s hand brushes back over to stroke his knee.

 

\+ + + +

 

Somehow along the way, after a stop at two petrol stations Malm took way too much time at moaning about the fucking coffee, and a pause at a shake shack, Zayn finds himself in the back with Harry; because, by some miracle, Malm convinced Harry to let him drive. And whilst Zayn’s heart picks up at times, when Malm turns too harshly around corners or waits until the last minute to slow down for traffic lights, he doesn’t complain. And Harry’s lack of chastise leads Zayn to believe that he just wants to be in the back with him, so he can watch Malm instead of Malm watching them, to not have to put up with the comments whenever they look at each other a certain way, or when Harry brings his hand to brush along Zayn’s knee every now and then to reassure him everything is as good as it can be.

Zayn lets it be, because it means that they can touch each other—in miniscule, risky ways they both enjoy—and they don’t really have to think much about it. To go with the flow of the current instead of trying too hard to resist it. Because that means Zayn can sit on one side of the car, Harry on the other, with his legs in Harry’s lap, and Harry plays this gentle strum across the nape of his foot and tells him how soft the skin is there. And he doesn’t have to think much about it.

Harry falls asleep in the crook of the seat as the sun begins to set, a book fallen limply into his lap, arm lay across Zayn’s leg. Zayn takes a photo on his phone with a ridiculous grin on his face and goes back to his word search.

“So, what’s the deal with you two?” Malm asks, hushed, not long after.

Zayn looks up. “Huh?”

“Well, thing is, you’re acting like a couple, but Harry isn’t the couple type. And, I might be wrong, correct me if I am, but ain’t you the guy who wrote that shit about him in the newspaper?” He tuts. “He called me up mad as fuck about that. You’re a dick for it, too, by the way.”

“I was just doing my job,” Zayn mutters.

“Well, that’s what I told him,” Malm says. “I also told him that it sounded very personal and that it was unprofessional of you to bring your personal bias into it.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Everything in life is driven by emotion. There ain’t much that isn’t personal.”

“Yeah, I told him that, too.”

“Uh-huh. What else did you tell him?”

Malm shrugs. “That you’re hot.” He peers into the rear-view mirror. “I wasn’t wrong.”

Zayn scoffs. “What?”

“He showed me a picture of you. He was so mad he couldn’t see how gorgeous you were. But I did,” Malm says, before adding, “And I think he’d taken some molly, so he was high as fuck.”

“Does that explain a lot of the stuff Harry used to do?” Zayn asks, skimming backwards and forwards between the pages on his home screen because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Yeah, probably. He’s a really nice guy down between the demons. Probably too kind. But, drugs make people a different person. That’s what I personally like about them, but that’s just me,” he says. When Zayn doesn’t respond, he continues, “I do believe in him, you know? It made it seem like I didn’t earlier, but I do. That was just me being a cockhead.”

“Right.”

“I think it’s a good thing, what he’s doing. Patching his life up, and all that shit I don’t have time for.” He waves off. “He deserves something good in his life. Like family” – He looks back at Zayn – “Or a loving partner.”

Zayn laughs down at himself, like he’s embarrassed, and avoids Malm’s eyes. “We’re not together.”

“Could be, by the way you’re acting. You look like a pair of high school kids who don’t know how to act around one another. It’s almost pathetic,” he says, and they both laugh. “But it’s cute, nice even. I haven’t seen Harry smile like that in a while.”

“Don’t say shit like that to me,” Zayn almost scolds with a deep breath.

“What? It’s true. When he picked me up this morning, he had this sullen look on his face like he’d lost the will to go on, or he was coming down from a high, I don’t fucking know. And then when we got to the hotel, he was all nervous, like, doing that shit people do in the movies where they rub their hands together and scratch the back of their neck and look around like they can’t see. And I didn’t understand why, until we walked in and saw you there. And I just happened to walk in on a very importune conversation someone may have been having, and I haven’t changed my mind on it since.”

Zayn frowns. “On what?”

Malm glances at him in the mirror, keeps his eyes there for much longer than he should with the road ahead of him. For a second, just a second—not even that—Zayn thinks Malm can see right through him. That he can peer into his soul, into his skin, and scrutinise all the laced remnants of affection for Harry clinging to his bloodstream like a virus. And Zayn holds his breath until Malm looks away, as if it’ll make him invisible until he doesn’t have to be, until he’s alone again in his corner of the car.

Harry shifts his feet, and Malm stays quiet, looking as if, in the small glimpse of his eyes that Zayn can catch in the rectangular mirror, that he has a novel of things to say and yet they all escape him. Zayn swallows and clutches his phone tightly in his hand.

“I am absolutely certain that you two have not fucked yet,” he eventually says, and Zayn lets go of his breath. “Like, the sexual tension is fuckable, literally. I could take my palm…” He holds his hand up and wanks it off.

Zayn smirks his lips in distaste. “Are you always this vulgar?”

“I’m always this _honest_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Well…” Malm shrugs. “But still, back to the point of it, I’m pretty sure that Harry likes you, like, in _that_ way. In a _‘more than friends’_ type of way,” he says. “To reassure you, if you were still feeling a little awkward about your moment on the phone earlier.”

“Oh, well that’s _really reassuring_ , thanks.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“No, I mean it. It’s nice for Harry to have someone, even if it is in that weird, unspoken type of way that might mean something more if you make it more,” he says.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles. “I don’t know if—I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Why not? I mean, if you’re wondering about Harry fucking around and that, he’s only like that ‘cause he hasn’t found someone. But I’m sure if you—”

“No, it’s not about that,” Zayn interrupts him. “I just… don’t know if it would work out. With my son, Jude, I don’t really do relationships, it just makes things more awkward. And with Harry being who he is…” Zayn shrugs. “I don’t think I’d wanna expose my son to that world, to the negatives of what that type of stuff might tag along.”

“Harry doesn’t lead an easy life. It may look good, with the fame and the money and the partying and the whole world loving you—although, it’s obviously _not_ the _whole_ world.” Malm points to Zayn with his head. “But, the world isn’t easy on him, as mad as it sounds. Not when it comes to things he can care about. I don’t know if you know about his family, but—well, it’s not my business to say.”

“He told me.”

Malm raises his brows. “He has?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“I mean, I don’t really have the right to have an opinion on it,” Zayn says. “Nor do you.”

“No, but c’mon… he’s asleep.”

Zayn glances over at Harry, his cheeks puffed out, mouth open, breathing heavily. He looks like a little teddy bear, Zayn thinks as this fondness creeps into the corners of his lips, like something you’d want to cuddle up to, like Jude’s Teddy. Malm is watching him in the mirror as he looks away, and Zayn clears his throat.

“I think, it’s a good thing that he’s trying to improve himself. Not just for him, but for his family, for the people who care about him,” Zayn says softly, eyes down in his lap. “I don’t know how difficult it is to get better without a good support system around you, but I imagine it’s difficult. I can amend him immensely for it. And he’s… strong. He’s very strong, even if he may not think it, even if, sometimes, he can’t face it. Sometimes, we all have to bury our heads in the sand and hope for it to be over, so we can find the courage to pull ourselves out.”

The hum of the radio takes over for a thrice, and Malm keeps his eyes on the road, tapping his finger silently against the steering wheel.

“Well, you’re definitely a writer. You got that… zing of unnecessary wisdom to you,” Malm jokes.

“Yeah.” Zayn smiles over at Harry. “I get that a bit.”

“But, I like your point.” Malm nods. “And, to be honest, I’m surprised he told you about all that. It took me two years to pry it out of him, and he told you in, what, a week?” He scoffs. “You must be special.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m nothing special.”

Harry stirs again, as if he’s disapproving even in his sleep.

“Trust me, Harry doesn’t let people in easily. You’ve gotta have, like, one of those grand, golden keys that unlocks every door in the city to get into that heart. You must have, like, a black card, or something.”

“More like a hotel card that activates the first time,” he says. “It’s just luck.”

“It’s not luck for someone to open your heart to you, mate,” Malm objects. “I thought you were the smart one.”

“So, if I’m the smart one, Harry’s the fame one, what does that make you?” Zayn asks.

“Just the tag along, I guess,” he says. “The tag along who seems to have ruined your little getaway.”

Zayn humphs. “Trust me, if I was getting away, I’d be running for the hills, not towards the flames.”

“Right. The funeral,” Malm says, and makes this sound with his lips. “Sorry about that, man. For being an insensitive arse about it earlier, too. Harry’ll have my balls for that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zayn assures.

“Well, we should be at this motel Harry was talking about soon, in about twenty-five minutes, according to this thing.” He points to the GPS. “You can wake Harry up, if you want.”

“I’ll just wake him up when we get there. He must be shattered,” Zayn says. “He must’ve left so early, and we didn’t go to sleep until early hours in the morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

Zayn pulls a face at him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Mate, I don’t care how you meant it as long as you’re keeping him company.”

Zayn laughs to himself and keeps his focus on Harry—for a second, he swears he sees Harry’s lips twitch, and Zayn’s eyes go all narrowed and weary in suspicion before Harry lets out a snore.

“I’ve kept him plenty of company, don’t worry. I haven’t really had much choice, otherwise.”

“Stuck in a car with Harry Styles for a week.” Malm makes this screech-like sound. “What a terror that must’ve been like. I couldn’t imagine anyone else in the _world_ who would want to be in a car with Harry Styles for this long.” He shakes his head. “What a nightmare.”

“Oh, it’s been absolutely awful,” Zayn says, going along with it. “In a car with him all day, a meter from him, listening to his rambling and smelly farts.”

“Oh, the farts,” he says, exasperated, clutching his head, “they’re lethal.”

“And don’t get me started on the humour.”

“Please, I’ll give you my pity,” Malm says, all dramatic.

When they laugh too loudly, Harry moves in his sleep, turns his head the other way and drops his arm to the side.

“Nah, he’s alright,” Zayn says. “Maybe, at times.”

“He’s my best friend, Zayn,” Malm says, his eyes back in the mirror, staring at him, “Don’t hurt him. Not again. Or I’ll rip your balls off.”

Zayn shakes his head and settles his eyes on Harry, resting them there, feeling his heart pick up and slow down at the sight, and he imitates Harry’s breaths to calm himself. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  

\+ + + +

 

Harry drags himself, still half-asleep across the car park of the motel when they arrive. Rather, Zayn drags a half-asleep Harry across the car park of the motel, his arm across Harry’s lower back, and Harry’s arm slinking slowly down towards Zayn’s arse that he has to shift back up so Malm doesn’t see as he walks behind them, who unwillingly volunteered to carry the majority of the bags. He leaves the bags at the door and wanders off to book the rooms—two, at his own request, which Zayn objects to and Malm only gives him a knowing smirk—whilst Zayn waits with Harry underneath the small cover across the building to avoid the starting drips of the rain.

“I told you, you shouldn’t have had the blunt,” Zayn says, leaning Harry on the side.

“I’m fine, m’just tired,” he mumbles and follows it with a yawn.

“Oh, don’t start, you’ll get me going,” Zayn moans, yawning only a moment later.

Harry giggles, all red and sleepy-eyed, a lazy smile on his lips that Zayn, sort of, wants to lean in and taste. So, he does.

Harry kisses back just as quickly, just as enthusiastic, as if their thoughts were co-aligned. There’s just enough time for the tips of their tongues to touch before Zayn hears Malm’s footsteps approaching, walking connivingly slow, and he pulls away. Harry, still drowsy, falls into his chest with a humorous hum, and Zayn holds him up.

“Two rooms, as requested,” Malm says and offers Zayn a key.

“I said one room was fine,” Zayn corrects.

“And I didn’t believe you.” He shrugs, winks, and picks up his bags. “You can take your own bags from here,” he says and disappears into his room as the door swings open.

“D’you think he gave us a separate room ‘cause he thinks we’re gonna fuck?” Harry says, muffled through Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn laughs. “No, definitely not. It’s ‘cause he wants me to sleep in the bed and you on the shitty little settee they probably have in the corner.”

Harry laughs, and the noise vibrates gently through Zayn’s shirt and into his chest, where it keeps him safe from the dropping temperature outside. He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair at the back where it’s matted and leaves a light kiss on Harry’s head.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s get in the room. I think you still need sleep.”

“And a drink. My mouth is dry as fuck,” Harry says.

“That’ll be ‘cause you smoked a fat blunt and singed your nose hairs trying to light it half-asleep.”

“You’re probably right.”

Zayn unlocks the door and pushes it open. “No probably about it, babe.”

Harry hums. “I like it when you call me baby,” he whispers in Zayn’s ear and wraps an arm around his waist as they move forward into the room, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

Zayn bites down on his lip. “I didn’t call you baby.”

“Might aswell have.”

He kisses below Zayn’s ear, and Zayn feels Harry smirk against his skin when he lets out this pathetic moan between his lips. When he pulls away from the grip, Harry brings him back in this time, so he’s face to face, lips to lips as he brings himself in without question. Zayn closes his eyes and lets the touch consume him as Harry moves them back, step-by-step, until his back gently hits the wall and his hand finds itself one with Harry’s hair for grip.

Harry’s hands wander, and Zayn, in a delicate notion of desperation, of missing home and needing a common touch, allows him to. Over his chest, across his waist, delving around the curve of his hips as Harry slides his hands up Zayn’s shirt and squeezes the little love handles he has, perked up by the fabric of his trousers.

“Think I’ve put on weight since I’ve been on the road,” Zayn says, a self-consciousness sinking in with Harry’s touch.  

Harry brings his lips away from Zayn’s neck for a moment, just to say, “It’s not a bad thing. I shouldn’t feel your ribs when I hug you, baby.”

“It’s just stress,” he sighs; moans as Harry finds that sensitive spot below his jaw. “Finding time to eat between work and parenting is difficult, sometimes.”

“I’ll keep fattening you up if you want,” Harry offers, “with my coc—”

“Don’t even, Harry, don’t—just don’t say that,” Zayn interrupts him. “ _Ever_. Don’t _ever_ say that.”

They both break down in giggles, Harry falling into the crook of Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and tickles the hairs there with his fingers. Harry gently presses their hips together, but it means nothing, really; nothing sexual, at least. He thinks Harry just does it for the touch, to grasp on to the moment as long as he can before the rest of it slips away through their fingers. Because it’s gone—the moment. And it was fun whilst it lasted, but it wasn’t meant to be. Harry is still sleepy and high, and its technically way past Jude’s bed time, which is Zayn’s bed time, really, and he wouldn’t mind if they both just fell into the bed now, with soft kisses and pillow talk until they fall asleep to an early alarm.

“I’ve got a big day tomorrow,” Zayn says quietly.

“Yeah.” Harry kisses his shoulder and stands straight, so they’re eye to eye. “You have, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” Zayn yonderly nods, tries to stop his eyes from tearing up at the seams.

But, by the way Harry looks at him, even after he looks away—down to the floor, up to the ceiling, the stained walls, and back again—it doesn’t work.

“Hey,” Harry says. He takes Zayn’s cheeks between his palms, tilts his mouth up so their lips can meet, and brings him in for the sweetest kiss Zayn thinks has ever graced him. “You’ll be okay. I know you will. You’re such a strong man.”

“Harry, you don’t… you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, “I know, But I just want to let you know, in case you’ve forgot.”

Zayn smiles meekly at him, thin-lipped and rosy cheeked and listening to his chest thump a little faster. “Thanks, Harry.”

“I could always come with you, if you need me to,” he offers.

Zayn leans his head against the wall and sighs. He entertains the thought, just for a moment; of Harry being there beside him tomorrow. A hand to hold, a greeting face against the cruelty his family has always shown him, a smile to protect him against the icy lure of the day. The slice of life between all that death. It’s a nice thought, and his heart rivets with warmth at benevolence he finds between Harry’s eyes, in his touch, between his lips, because, maybe, it’s what he needs, more so than what he wants. But he knows, at the end of the day, it’s just not something that’s meant to be.

“I think, it would only cause more hassle than it’s worth, in the end,” he says after a beat.

Harry frowns. He takes Zayn’s hands and steps back until he hits the bed, and they both sit down on the end. “Why do you say that?”

“‘Cause that’s always the way it goes with me.” Zayn laughs bitterly. “D’you know, when I was in high school there was this boy that I liked. I liked him a lot, and he liked me, but his parents were, uhm… Well, they were homophobic, to say it frankly. When they found out we were messing about, they punished him, and he blamed me for it. So, he paid one of the students in one of the years below us to pull down my trousers while I was doing a speech in assembly, and they took photos and posted them online.”

Harry remains quiet for a thrice. “Just the trousers?”

“Oh, no my boxers aswell. Yeah, the whole thing. Small, prepubescent, flaccid dick on display. And it was all over social media.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think I went into school for weeks, I was so embarrassed.”

“Well, he’s a cock for doing that to you, and his parents’ are cocks for being such cocks, and, to be honest, I’m having a difficult time believing someone would something like that to someone so innocent and kind.”

Zayn quirks a brow. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Harry’s eyes widen and his mouth falls. “No, no, no, that’s not—I wasn’t saying that, I was just saying that, you know, you didn’t deserve that and, like…” He waves him off. “Oh, you know what I mean. But, I guess, thinking it now, you’re the type of person bullies like that target. You know, nice people, good people. It’s more of a reflection of themselves, though, yeah? Like, they feel shit about themselves, so they have to put it on someone else to boost their self-esteem.”

“Yeah, alright, Dr. Freud,” Zayn teases. “I was just messing with you, Haz.”

“Shut up.” Harry shakes his head with a falling smile. “I had my fair share of bullies when I was at school. I was a little geeky looking.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Harry’s forehead raises. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. He knocks his shoes off and lies back on the bed; Harry follows him. “When I was, uhm, looking you up for the article. Y’know, researching and that,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?”

Zayn chuckles to himself. “I guess, I got a bit carried away on Google images. I think I even got to the bottom of the page, y’know, where there’s shit that isn’t even related to you down there, or some weird, creepy fanfiction shit. I saw some old photos. Some _very_ old photos.”

Harry fails to hide his smirk; in fact, Zayn thinks he doesn’t even try to cover it at all.

Zayn slaps his arm gently. “Don’t look at me like that. I was very devoted to my research.”

“And you made a _smashing_ article about it,” Harry says snidely, whilst Zayn rolls his eyes. He pulls them to their sides and wraps his arm around Zayn’s waist. “I don’t think I’ve told you this, but it was actually really well written.”

Zayn looks to him almost unbelieving. “A—Did you just compliment me? Again?”

“Is that so strange?”

“Still feels weird.” Zayn snuggles up closer to him. “Nice, but weird.”

“Take it or leave it. But I hope you take it.”

“I’ll take it.” Zayn smiles. “We left all the bags outside.”

“Well, lets hope it doesn’t rain too hard.”

“I can’t risk my suit getting wet. Otherwise, I don’t have anything to wear tomorrow. But I can’t be bothered to get up, though. Too tired,” he says, yawning again.

“I’ll get them, just stay there.” Harry kisses his head and moves from the bed.

“Don’t be insulted if I’m asleep by the time you get back.”

“What was the name of that guy you liked in high school?” Harry asks in a raised voice as he walks across the room. “The dickhead.”

“Close.” Zayn closes his eyes and brings the pillow underneath him, smiling. “His name was Harry, I think.”

“No shit.”

He hums. “A bit irony.”

“You are tired, huh?” Harry chuckles. He makes these noises as he hauls the bags into the room, as if he isn’t strong enough to carry them. “You should sleep, you’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’m gonna be up for a little bit, anyway.”

“Thought you were tired,” Zayn says softly, sleepily, and he hears the sounds in the room dull and waken again as he tips on the verge of light sleep.

“I was, but now I’m awake. Plus, I’m starving, and I saw a vending machine down the hallway outside so I’m going to go raid it and probably sit with Malm. I don’t want to keep you up or wake you with my loud, animal-like chomping.”

“I haven’t spoke to Jude.”

“It’s okay.”

“He probably misses me. “A pout forms on Zayn’s lips.

Harry kisses it away. “You can speak to him in the morning.”

He feels Harry’s lips on his forehead, his cheek, and chastely on his lips. Their noses brush just for a second, and Zayn finds himself absent-mindedly leaning up so he doesn’t lose the ambiguity of Harry’s company. 

“Just sleep, okay? I’ll set your alarm for you,” Harry says.

“My password is Jude in numbers.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll save you a snickers.”

“I don’t think they have snickers in Belarus.”

“Well, I’ll save you whatever is nutty and nougat-like,” he says, and there’s a pause. “And I’m not talking about my balls.”

Zayn giggles and falls quiet again. “I’ll go with that.”

“Good. Don’t be alarmed if you hear Malm screaming. It’s just me beating the shit out of him.”

“Give him a good whack for me.”

“Was the plan all along.”

Zayn peaks an eye open. “Harry?”

He turns around just as he’s leaving. “Yes, Zayn?”

“You were awake in the car earlier, weren’t you?"

Harry grins. “What gave me a way—my awful snoring?”

Zayn hums. “I just know you.”

“And I wouldn’t want anyone else to. Sweet dreams, Prince. Your knight in Prada has some chocolate to attend to.”

“You’re a goof, Harry.”

Harry stares at him for a moment; just a moment, but it’s enough. He walks back over to the bed, shifts Zayn’s hair behind his ear, and kisses his cheek. Zayn sinks further into the sheets, like he’s been kissed with an elixir of dreams, all fuzzy from his head to his toes, and he softly sighs as he falls asleep.

“Just your goof, baby. Just yours.” 

 


End file.
